

Class 
Book. 

Gopight’N? 


























>. 170. 


OKISTTS. 






Or Ti ^ f ^ NT t^^TAN^p^ 1 itf.K;<\TU r 


Vol.4,No. no. Auk. 17,188.*?. AnauaJ Suhsei iptioii, $.50. 00^|| ^ j 


HARD TIMES. 


- f^Lo 

'■ I7V: 
/ : ^ 1 


BY 




CHARLES DICKENS. 


i sintered at the Post Office, N. Y.. a.s second-class matter. A 
Ij Wy Copyright, 188.3, by Joiix W. Lovelx, Co. 


' L ov g 1, . Co/^Pi^^^Y+ 

14- tKl6 VeSEY STREET- 



it CLOTK BINDING for this volume can be obtained from any bookseller or newsdealer, prlc^OctsT 





LOVELL’S LIBRARY^ 

O^T^XiOCa-TJE. I 


1. Hyperion, by H. W. Longfellow. . .20 

2. Outre-Mer, by H. W. Longfellow . . .20 

3. The Happy Boy, by BjOrnson. .10 

4. Arne, by Bjornaon. . ^ ..10 . 

5. Frankenstein; or.. the Modern T^o- 

metbeus, by Mrs. Shelley. ... 10 

6. The Last of the Mohicans, by J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

T. Clytie, by Joseph Hatton 20 

8. The Moonstone, by Collins, P’t I.. 10 

9, The Moonstone, by Collins, P'tll.lO 

10. Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. 20 

11. The Coming Kace, by Lytton 10 

12. Leila, by Lord Lytton 10 

13. The Three Spaniards, by Walker. .20 

14. The Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled; 

or, the Art of Winning at every 

Game, by Kobert Houdin 20 

16. L’Abb6 Constantin, by Hal6vy..20 

16. Freckles, by R. F. Redcliff 20 

17. The Dark Colleen, by Harriett Jay .20 

18. They Were Married ! by Walter Be- 

lant and James Rice 10 

19. Seekers after God, by Canon Farrar. 20 

20. The Spanish Nun, by Thos. De 

Qnincey 10 

21. The Green Mountain Boys, by 

Judge D. P. Thompson 20 

22. Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe 20 

23. Second Thoughts, by Rhoda 

Broughton.... 20 

24. The New Magdalen, by Wilkie 

Collins 20 

25. Divorce, by Margaret Lee 20 

26. Life of Washington, by Henley.. 20 

27. Social Etiquette, by Mrs. W.^A. 

Savilie ^ . .*.. ..15 

28. Single Heart and Double' Fa ce^ by 

Charles Reade i . .10 

29. Irene, by Carl Detlef .... 20 

80. ViceVersa; or, a Lesson to Fathers, 

by F. Anstey 20 

31. Ernest Maltravers, by Lord Lytton. 20 

32. The Haunted House and Calderon 

the Courtier, by Lord Lytton... 10 

33. John Halifax, by Miss Mulock 20 

34. 800 Leagues on the Amazon, being 

Part I of the Giant Raft, by 

Jules Verne 10 

85. The Cr 3 ’^ptogram, being Part II of 

the Giant Raft, by Jules Verne.. IS 

36. Life of Marion, by Horry andWeems. 20 

37. Paul and Virginia .... 19 

88. Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens. . . .20 

39. The Hermits, by Kingsley 20 

40. An Adventure in Thule, and Mar* 

riage of Moira Fergus, by Wm. 
Black 10 

41. A Marriage in High Life, by Octave 

Feuillet 20 

42. Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 

43. Tw© on a Tower, by Thomas Hardy .20 

44. Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson 10 


45. Alice, or, the Mysteries, being Part 

II of Ernest Maltravers 2**,^ 

46. Duke of Kandos, by A. Matthcy . . .2 o 

- 47. Baron Munchausen 1'; g 

48. A Princess of Thule, by Wm. Black.2( ) 
. 49. The Secret Despatch, by Grant. ...2( J 

50. Early Days of Christianity,’ by Can- 

on Farrar, D,D., Part t 2t ) 

Early Days of Christianity, by Can- 
on Farrar, D.D., Part II 2* ) 

51. Vicar of Wakefield, by Oliver Gold- 

smith 1C ) 

52. Progress and Poverty, by Henry 

George 20, 

53. The Spy, by J. Fenimore Cocker. . . 20 - 

54. East Lynne, by Mrs. Henry Wood.2C 

55. A Strange Story, by Lord Lytton. .21 i 

56. Adam Bede, by Geo. Eliot, Part I. .1£^ 
Adam Bede, by Geo. Eliot, Part II. .If ft 

57. The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. 2C . 

58. Portia, or, By Passions Rocked, by 

The Duchess 20 

59. Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton. 20 


60. The Two Duchesses, being the se- 

quel to the Duke of Kandos, by 
A. Mathey 20 

61. Tom Brown’s School Days at Rug- 

by.. 2C ) 

62. TheWooing O’t, by Mrs. Alexander, 

Part 1 15 , 

TheWooing O’t, by Mrs. Alexander, 

Part II 15 

63. The Vendetta, Tales of Love and 

Passion, by Honore de Balzac.. 20 

64. Hypatia, by Rev. Kingsley, Part I. .16 


Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part II. ...15 

65. Selnia, by Mrs. J. Gregory Smith. .16 

66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. . .20 

67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I ...... 16 

Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II.. . - .15 

CS, Gulliver’s Travels, by Dean Swift.. 20 
09. Amos Barton, by George Eliot 10 

70. The Berber, by W. E. Mayo 20 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. ...10 

72. The Queen of the County 20 

73. Life of Cromwell, by Paxton Hood..l6 

74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bront6...20 

75. Child’s History of England, by | 

Charles Dickens 20 

76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess 20 

77. Pillone, by William Bergsbe 15 ' 

78. Phyllis, by the Duchess 20 

79. Romola, by George Eliot, Parti... 16 
Romola, by George Eliot, Part II. .16 

80. Science iu Short Chapters ..20 

81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton. 20 

82. A Daughter of Heth, by W. Black. 20 

83. The Right and Wrong Uses of the 1 
' Bible, by Rev. R. Heber Newton.20 

84. Night and Morning, by Lord Lytton 

Part 1 16 

Night and Morning, by Lord Lytton 
Part II rl5 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY’S 


CHEAP EDITIONS OF 



The following are all 12mo. size, printed from large, clear type, on 
good paper, attractively bound in illuminated paper covers. Hand- 
somely stamped cloth bindings for any volume, furnished for 10 
cents extra. 


Library Editions of those books marked with a * are also 
published large 12mo. size, handsomely bound in cloth. Price, $1.00 
a volume. 


By EDMOND ABOUT. 

A New Leape of Life 20 

By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 

*The Wooing O’t, Part 1 15 

“ “ “ Part II 15 

♦The Admiral’s Ward 20 

By F. ANSTEY. 

*Vice Versa; or, a Lesson to 
Fathers 20 

By sir SAMUEL BAKER. 

*Ca8t up by the Se.i 20 

*Eig it Years Wandering in Ceylon., 20 
*Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

By honor E DE BALZAC. 

The Vendetta, Tales of Love and Pas- 
sion 20 

By WALTER BESANT AND 
JAMES RICE. 

They Were Married 10 

Let Nothing You Dismay 10 

By BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON. 

The Happy Boy lo 

Arne 10 

By WILHELM B RGSOE. 

Pillone 15 

By LILLIE DEVEREUX BLAKE. 
Woman’s Place To-day 20 


By Miss M. E. BRADDON. 

*The Golden Calf 20 

♦Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

By WILLIAM BLACK. 

An Adventure in Thule and Marriage 

of Moira Fergus 10 

*A Pi in cess of Thule 20 

*A Daughter of Heth 20 

*Shandon Bells 20 

♦Macieod ot Dare 20 

♦Madcap Violet ....20 

♦Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. . .20 

♦ Vii hite Wings 20 

♦Kilmeny 20 

♦Sunrise 20 

♦That Beautiful Wretch 20 

♦111 Silk Attire 20 

♦The Three Feathers 20 

♦Green Pastures and Piccadilly 20 

♦Yolande 20 

By charlotte BRONTE. 
♦Jane Eyre 20 

By RHODA BROUGHTON. 

♦Second Thoughts 20 

♦Belinaa 20 

By JAMES S. BUSH. 

More Words About the Bible 20 

By E. LASSETER BY'NNER. 

Nimport, Part 1 15 

Part 11...“: 15 

Triton^, Parti 15 

“ Part II 15 


By Mrs. CHAMPNEY 
Bourbon Lilies .20 

By WILKIE COLLINS. 

*The Moonstone, Parti 10 

“ “ PartH 10 

*The New- Magdalen 20 

*Heart and Science 20 

By J. FENIMORB COOPER. 

*The Last of the. Mohicans 20 

*The Spy 20 

By THOMAS BE QUINCEY. 

The Spanish Nun 10 

By carl DETLEP. 

Irene, or the Lonely Manor 20 

By CHARLES DICKENS. 

♦Oliver Twist 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part 1 20 

“ “ Part II 20 

*A Tale of Two Cities^ 20 

♦Child’s History of England .20 

By “THE DUCHESS.” 

♦Portia, or by Passions Rocked 20 

♦Molly Bawn 20 

♦Phyllis 20 

Monica 10 

♦Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

♦Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

♦Beauty’s Daughters 20 

♦Faith and Unfaith 20 

♦Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

Mckiushine and Marguerites 10 

By Lord DUFFERIN. 

Letters from High Latitudes 20 

By GEORGE ELIOT. 

♦Adam Bede, Part 1 15 

“ “ Part II 15 

Amos Barton 10 

Silas Marner 10 

♦Romola Parti 15 

“ Part II 15 

By P. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

♦Seekers A f ter God ... 20 

♦Early Days of Christianity, Part I. . .20 
“ “ “ “ Part II.. 20 

By JOHN FRANKLIN. 

Ameline du Bourg 15 

By octave FEUILLET. 

A Marriage in I||gh Life 20 

By EMILE GABORIAU. 

♦The Lerouge Case 20 

♦Monsieur Lecoq, Part 1 20 

‘‘ '* Part II 20 

♦The Mystery of Or-eival 20 

♦Other People’s Money 20 

♦In Peril of his Life 20 

♦The Gilded Clique 20 

Promises of Marriage 10 


By henry GEORGE. 
Progress and Poverty 2C 

By CHARLES GIBBON. 

♦The Golden Shaft 20 

By OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
Vicar of Wakefield 10 

By Mrs. GORE. 

The Dean’s Daughter 20 

By JAMES GRANT. 

♦The Secret Despatch 20 

By THOMAS HARDY. 

Two on a Tower 20 

By PAXTON HOOD. 

Life of Cromwell 15 

By LEONARD HENLEY 
♦Life of Washington 20 

By JOSEPH HATTON. 

♦Clytie 20 

♦Cruel London 20 

By LUDOVIC HALEVY. 

L’Abbe Constantin 20 

By ROBERT HOUDIN. 


The Tricks of the Greeks Unveiled. ..20 

By HORRY AND WEEMS. 

♦Life of Marion 20 

By Miss HARRIET JAY. 

The Dark Colleen 20 

By MARION HARLAND. 
Housekeeping and Homemaking 15 

By STANLEY HUNTLEY. 
♦Spoopendyke Papers 20 

By WASHINGTON IRVING. 
♦The Sketch Book 20 

By SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
Rasselas 10 

By JOHN P. KENNEDY. 

♦Horse Shoe Robinson, Part 1 15 

“ “ “ Part II 15 

By EDWARD KELLOGG. 

Labor and Capital 20 

By GRACE KENNEDY. 

Dunallen, Parti 15 

“ Part II .....15 

By CHAS. KINGSLEY. 

♦The Hermits 20 

♦Hypatia, Parti 15 

“ Part II 15 


By Miss MARGAllET LEE. I 
♦Divorce 20 

By henry W. LONGFELLOW. 

♦Hyperion 2') 1 

♦Outre-Mer 20 


By SAMUEL LOVER. 

The Happy Man 10 

By lord LYTTON. 

The Coming Race 10 

Leila, or the Siege of Granada 10 

Earnest Maltravers 20 

The Hannted House, and Caldero*n 

the Courtier 10 

Alice; a sequel to Earnest MaUravers.20 

A Strange S?ory 20 

♦Last Days of Pompeii 20 

Zanoni 20 

Night and Morning, Part 1 15 

“ “ Part II 15 

Paul Clifford 20 

Lady of Lyons 10 

Money 10 

Richelieu 10 

By H. C. LUKENS, 

♦Jets and Flashes ; 20 

By Mrs. E. LYNN LINTON, 
lone Stewart 20 

By W. E. mayo. 

The Berber 20 

ByA. MATHEY. / 

Duke of Kandos .• 20 

The Two Duchesses 20 

By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 

An Outline of Irish History 10 

By EDWARD MOTT. 

♦Pike County Folks 20 

By max MULLER. 

*India, what can she teach us?. 20 

By Miss MULOCK. 

♦John Halifax 20 

By R. HEBER newton 
T he Rigat and Wrong Uses of the 
Bible .20 

By W. E. NORRIS. 

♦No New Thing 20 

By OUIDA. 

♦Wanda, Part 1 15 

“ Part II 15 

♦Under Two Flags, Part 1 20 

“ “ Part II 20 


By JAMES PAYN. 

♦Thicker than Water 20 

By CHARLEb READE. 

Single Heart and Double Face 10 

By REBECCA FERGUS REDCLIFF. 
Freckles 20 

By Sib RANDALL H. ROBERTS. 

Harry Holbrooke 20 

By Mrs. ROW SON. 

Charlotte Temple 10 

By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 

♦A Sea Queen 20 

By GEORGE SAND. 

The Tower of Percemont 2o 

By Mrs. W. A. SAVILLE. 

Social Etiquette 15 

By MICHAEL SCOTT. 

♦Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

By EUGENE SCRIBE. 
Fleurette 20 

By J. PALGRAVE SIMPSON. 
Haunted Hearts 10 

By GOLD win SMITH, D.C.L. 

False Hopes 15 

By dean swift 
G ulliver’s Travels ! 20 

By W* M. THACKERAY. 

♦Vanity Fair, Part 1 15 

“ “ II 15 

By Judge D. P. THOMPSON. 
♦The Green Mountain Boys 20 

By THEODORE TILTON. 

Tempest Tossed, Part i. 20 

“ “ Part 11 20 

By JULES VERNE. 

♦800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

♦The Cryptogram \( 

By GEORGE WALKER. 

♦The Three Spaniards 20 

By W. M. WILLIAMS. 

Science in Short Cham^rs 20 

By Mrs. HENRY WOOD. 

♦East Lynne 20 


By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
♦The Ladies Liiidores 

By LOUISA PARR. ’ 
Robin 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

20 Paul a' d Virginia 

Margaret and her Bridesmaids 

The Queen of the Couuty 

.20 Baron Munchausen 


10 

20 

10 




KEYSTONE ©ROAil- “So!;:.™! 

from $175 to $125. Acclimatized case. Anti-Shoddy and Anti-Iuoiiopoly. Kot all case, 
stops, top and advertisement. Warranted for 6 years. Has tlic Excelsior IS-Stop 
Combination, em^acing > Diapason, Flute, Melodia-Fortc, Yiolina, Acolina, Viola, 
Plute-Dorto, Celeste, Dulcet, Echo, Melodia, Celestina, Octavo Coupler, Tremelo, 
Sub-Bass. Ocllo, G-rand-Org-an Air Brake, G-rand-Org-an Swell. Two Knee- 
Stops. This is a Walnut case, with Music Balcony, Sliding Desk, Side Handles, &c. 
Dimensions : Height, 75 inches; Length, 48 inches; Depth, 24 inches. This 5-Octave 
Organ, with Stool, Book and Music, we will box and deliver at dock in New Yorli, for 
$125. Send by express, prepaid, clieck, or registered letter to 

LICKIITSOIT & CO., Pianos' and Organs, 

19 Wesi l!th Street, New York. 



HARD TIMES 




. ■ .' ', ■- 

. . ■ : rX 

.v^rfesS- . ■' ;; • 




a MIT 



' ■ • , , -f 


. .< a^^ia Tin 





it<'. 


/I 




-V 





' ' ' Vx ' • -■' ■' ^ '' -■' ^ '< ^ OirrM 


."'<ri - ' 


^T?p- 


r 


. fcj* - i 


■■'M ',. / T'^i-'x.;®' T- v‘ i.^;', V .^/ ?^''‘T'^’ .t;>'’''? ,'£sa.ra^ . , ■ ' , 

. siH'". *s' : '^ .^.f:- '■■ ■ 

* v 1 ..,.. . .' . •■/'•#» • '■{'- ^ ; ^iT' ' ^Ti* ’ .’ ' V’ • •■;■ ■ - 

. '•; . ':> ■ ' . •;T ''.V. a j X-.( -- -■ ■ a '.;.' .' .' . ,'. : 'jfiDi.' . /. ■• « 




■ V '- v' Ml ' 


>'•’.' -^/’t -'.' p:-. •i'r;- 


-Tin'i^ 


:E:L'i 


i 




.^Xiv '..X^ -A-^- '■•" '-'•' 
■■'Stv-. ; ■:,<'>- ■ ■ 'W^*' 


•.T:iw^. 




■1 

V ‘ / -Mf ' f • 

* 


ra 


V'.y* f ■ ■ 


'y»'.f C‘, 


L - .. t ;'*i{V::' , '; '^ ■■■'’. 


■J'.- 


HARD TIMES. 


BOOK THE FIRST. SOWING. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE ONE THING NEEDFUL, 

“Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls 
nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant 
nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only 
form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts : nothing else 
will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on 
which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on 
which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir! 

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a schoob 
room, and the speaker’s square forefinger emphasized his 
/)bservations by underscoring every sentence with a line on 
the schoolmaster’s sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the 
speaker’s square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows 
for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two 
dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was 
helped by the speaker’s mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard 
set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s voice, which 
was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped 
by the speaker’s hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald 
head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining sur- 
face, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if 
the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored 


542 


//A/s^B TIMES. 


inside. The speaker’s obstinate carriage, square coat, square 
legs, square shoulders, — nay, his very neckcloth, trained to 
take him by the coat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a 
stubborn fact, as it was, — all helped the emphasis. 

In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but 
Facts ! ” 

The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown 
person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes 
the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in 
order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them 
until they were full to the brim. • 


CHAPTER II. 

MURDERING THE INNOCENTS. 

Thomas Gradgrind, sir. A man of realities. A man of 
facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the prin- 
ciple that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is 
not to be talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Grad- 
grind, sir — peremptorily Thomas — Thomas Gradgrind. With 
a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always 
in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of 
human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a 
mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You 
might hope to get some other nonsensical belief into the head 
or George Gradgrind, or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Grad- 
grind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all suppositious, non-existent 
persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind — no, sir ! 

In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced 
himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to 
the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting 
the words ‘‘ boys and girls, for “sir,’’ Thomas Gradgrind now 
presented Thomas .Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, 
who were to be filled so full of facts. 

Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage 
before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the 
muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the 
regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a gal- 
vanizing apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical sub- 


MURDERING THE INNOCENTS. 


543 

stitute for the tender young imaginations that, were to be 
stormed away. 

Girl number twenty/’ said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely point- 
ins: with his square forefinger, “ I don’t know that girl. Who 
is that girl ” 

“ Sissy Jupe, sir,” explained number twenty, blushing^ 
standing up, and curtseying. 

“Sissy is not a name,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Don’t call 
yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia.” 

“ It’s father as calls me Sissy, sir,” returned the young girl 
in a trembling voice^ and with another curtsey. 

“ Then he has no business to do it/’ said Mr. Gradgrind. 
“Tell him he mustn’t. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is 
your father } ” 

“ He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir.” 

Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable 
calling with his hand. 

“We don’t want to know anything about that, here. You 
mustn’t tell us about that, here. Your father breaks horses, 
don’t he?” 

“ If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they 
do break horses in the ring, sir.” 

“You mustn’t tell us about the ring, here. Very well, 
then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors 
sick horses, I dare say ? ” 

“ Oh yes, sir.” 

“ Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, 
and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse.” 

(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this de- 
mand.) 

“ Girl number twenty unable to define ahorse ! ” said Mr. 
Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers. 
“ Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in reference to 
one of the commonest of animals ! Some boy’s definition of 
a horse. Bitzer, yours.” 

The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly 
on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray 
of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of 
the intensely whitewashed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the 
boys and girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two 
compact bodies, divided up the centre by a narrow interval j 
and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny side, 
came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being 


544 


HARD TIMES. 


at the corn^ of a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, 
caught the end. But, whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and 
dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a deeper and more 
lustrous color from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy 
was so light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays ap- 
peared to draw out of him what little color he ever possessed. 
His cold eyes would hardly have been eyes, but for 
the short end of the lashes which, by bringing them into im- 
mediate contrast with something paler than themselves, ex- 
pressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have been 
a mere continuation of the sandy-freckles on his forehead and 
face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural 
tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed 
white. 

Bitzer,” said Thomas Gradgrind. “ Your definition of a 
horse.” 

“Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely 
twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. 
Sheds coat in the spring ; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, 
too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. 
Age known by marks in mouth.” Thus (and much more) 
Bitzer. 

“ Now girl number twenty,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “ You 
know what a horse is.” 

She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper, if 
she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all 
this time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind 
with both eyes at once, and so catching the light upon his 
quivering ends of lashes that they looked like the antennae of 
busy insects, put his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat 
down again. 

The third gentleman now stepped forth. A mighty man at 
cutting and drying, he was ; a government officer ; in his way 
(and in most other people’s too), a professed pugilist ; always in 
training, always with a system to force down the general throat 
like a bolus, always to be heard of at the bar of his little Public- 
office, ready to fight all England. To continue in fistic phrase- 
ology, he had a genius for coming up to the scratch, wherever 
and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly customer. 
He would go in and damage any subject whatever with his right, 
follow up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his op- 
ponent (he always fought All England) to the ropes, and fall 
upon him neatly. He was certain to knock the wind out of 


MURDERING THE INNOCENTS. 


545 


common sense, and render that unlucky adversary deaf to the 
call of time. And he had it in charge from high authority to 
bring about the great public-office Millennium, when Com- 
missioners should reign upon earth. 

Very well,’^ said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and fold- 
ing his arms. That’s a horse. Now, let me ask you girls, 
and boys. Would you paper a room with representations of 
horses ? ” 

After a pause, one half of the children cried in chorus, 
“ Yes, sir ! ” Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentle- 
man’s face that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, “No, 
sir J ” — as the custom is, in these examinations. 

“ Of course. No. Why wouldn’t you ? ” 

A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner 
of breathing, ventured the answer. Because he wouldn’t paper 
a room at all, but would paint it. 

“You must paper it,” said the gentleman, rather warmly. 

“ You must paper it,” said Thomas Gradgrind, whether 
you like it or not. Don’t tell us you wouldn’t paper it. What 
do you mean, boy ? ” 

“ I’ll explain to you, then,” said the gentleman, after an- 
other and a dismal pause, “ why you wouldn’t paper a room 
with representations of horses. Do you ever see horses 
walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality — in fact ? 
Do you ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ! ” from one half. “ No, sir ! ” from the other. 

“ Of course no,” said the gentleman, with an indignant 
look at the wrong half. “ Why, then, you are not to see any- 
where, what you don’t see in fact ; you are not to have any- 
where, what you don’t have in fact. What is called Taste, 
is only another name for Fact.” 

Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. 

“ This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery,” 
said the gentleman. “ Now, I’ll try you again. Suppose you 
were going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having 
a representation of flowers upon it ! ” 

There being a general conviction by this time that “ No, 
sir ! ” was always the right answer to this gentleman, the 
chorus of No was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers 
said Yes ; among them Sissy Jupe. 

“Girl number twenty,” said the gentleman, smiling in the 
calm strength of knowledge. 

Sissy blushed, and stood up. 


546 


//A /CD TIMES. 


“ So you would carpet your room — or your husbaiid^s room 
if you were a grown woman, and had a husband — with repre- 
sentations of flowers, would you,” said the gentleman. “ Why 
would you ? ” 

“ If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers,” returned 
the girl, 

* “ And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon 

them, and have people walking over them with heavy 
boots ? ” 

“ It wouldn’t hurt them, sir. They wouldn’t crush and 
wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of 
what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy ” 

^‘Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn’t fancy,” cried the gentle- 
man, quite elated by coming so happily to this point. That’s 
it ! You are never to fancy.” 

You are not, Cecilia Jupe,” Thomas Gradgrind solemnly 
repeated, to do anything of that kind.” 

Fact, fact, fact ! ” said the gentleman. And Fact, fact, 
fact I ” repeated Thomas Gradgrind. 

You are to be in all things regulated and governed,” said 
the gentleman, ‘‘ by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board 
of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the 
people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You 
must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to 
do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or orna- 
ment, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don’t walk 
upon flowers in fact ; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flow- 
ers in carpets. You don’t find that foreign birds and butterflies 
come and perch upon your crockery ; you cannot be permitted 
to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You 
never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls ; you 
must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You 
must use,” said the gentleman, ‘‘for all these purposes, com- 
binations and modifications (in primary colors) of mathemati- 
cal figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. 
This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste.” 

The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She was very young, 
and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter of fact 
prospect the world afforded. 

“ Now if Mr. M‘Choakumchild,” said the gentleman, “ will 
proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall 
be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of proceed 
ure.” 


A LOOPHOLE. 


547 

Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. “ Mr. ]\rChoakum- 
child we only wait for you.” 

So, Mr. M‘Choakumchild began in his best manner. 
He and some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters, had 
been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory on 
the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had 
been put through an immense variety of paces, and had am 
swered volumes of head-breaking questions. Orthography, 
etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geog- 
graphy, and general cosmography, the sciences of compound 
proportion, algebra, land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, 
and drawing from models, were all at the ends of his ten chilled 
lingers. He had worked his stony way into Her Majesty’s 
most Honorable Privy Council’s Schedule B, and had taken 
the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical 
science, French, German, Latin and Greek. He knew all 
about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), 
and all the stories of all the peoples, and all the names of all 
the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, 
and customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and 
bearings on the two and thirty points of the compass. Ah, 
rather overdone, M‘Choakumchild. If he had only learnt a 
little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much 
more ! 

He went to work in his preparatory lesson, not unlike 
Morgiana in the Forty Thieves : looking into all the vessels 
ranged before him, on^ after another, to see what they con- 
tained. Say, good M^Choakumchild. When from thy boiling 
store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by and by, dost thou 
think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy 
lurking within — or sometimes only maim him arid distort him ! 


CHAPTER III. 

A LOOPHOLE. 

ctS, 

Mr. Gradgrind walked ho 'uncard from the school, in a 
state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he 
intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to 
be a model — just as the young Gradgrinds were all models. 


54S 


//AJ?D TIMES. 


There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were models 
every one. They had been lectured at from their tenderest 
years ; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they 
could run alone, they had been made to run to the lecture- 
room. The first object with which they Jiad an association, 
or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board 
with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it. 

Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything about an 
Ogre. Fact forbid ! I only use the word to express a 
monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many 
heads manipulated into one, taking childhood captive, and 
dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by the hair. 

No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon ; it 
was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No little 
Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle. Twinkle, twinkle 
little star; how I wonder what you are ! No little Gradgrind 
had ever known wonder on the subject, each little Gradgrind 
having at five years old dissected the Great Bear like a Pro- 
fessor Owen, and driven Charleses Wain like a locomotive 
engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow 
in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled horn who 
tossed the dog who worried the cat who killed the rat who ate 
the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who swallowed 
Tom Thumb : it had never heard of those celebrities, and 
had only been introduced to a cow as a graminivorous rumi- 
nating quadruped with several stomachs. 

To his matter of fact home, which was called Stone Lodge, 
Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually retired 
from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone 
Lodge, and was now looking about for a suitable opportunity 
of making an arithmetical figure in Parliament. Stone Lodge 
was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a great town — 
called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book. 

A very regular feature on the face of the country. Stone 
Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded off 
that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square 
house, with a heavy portico darkening the principal windows, 
as its master’s heavy brows overshadowed his eyes. A cal- 
culated, cast up, balancecP- nd proved house. Six windows 
on this side of the door, s^lP^n that side ; a total of twelve in 
this wing, a total of twelve in the other wing ; four-and-twenty 
carried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and an 
infant avenue, all ruled straight like a botanical account-book. 


A LOOPHOLE. 


549 ’ 


Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, all of the 
primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fireproof from top 
to bottom ; mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their 
brushes and brooms ; everything that heart could desire. 

Everything ? Well, I suppose so. The little Gradgrinds 
had cabinets in various departments of science too. They 
had a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical 
cabinet, and a little mineralogical cabinet ; and the speci- 
mens were all arranged and labelled, and the bits of stone 
and ore looked as though they might have been broken 
from the parent substances by those tremendously hard in- 
struments their own names ; and, to paraphrase the idle 
legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his way into 
their nursery. If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at 
more than this, what was it for good gracious goodness^ sake, 
that the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at ! 

Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied frame of 
mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manner ; but 
he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, 
like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as ‘‘ an eminently practical ” 
father. He had a particular pride in the phrase eminently 
practical, which was considered to have a special application 
to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in Coketown, 
and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner 
was sure to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently 
practical friend Gradgrind. This always pleased the emi- 
nently practical friend. He knew it to be his due, but his due 
was acceptable. 

He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts of 
the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was 
either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of 
music. The clashing and banging band attached to the horse- 
riding establishment which had there set up its rest in a 
wooden pavilion was in full bray. A flag, floating from the 
summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was 
“ Sleary’s Horse-riding ’’ which claimed their suffrages. Sleary 
himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, 
in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic architecture, took the 
money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some very long and very 
narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating 
the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean 
flower-act. Among the other pleasing but always strictly 
moral wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signor 


55 ^ 


HAR'D TIMES. 


Jupe was that afternoon to “ elucidate the diverting accoiiv 
plishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs.’^ 
He was also to exhibit ‘‘his astounding feat of throwing 
seventy-five hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded 
over his head, thus forming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, 
a feat never before attempted in this or any other country, 
and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthu- 
siastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn.’' The same Signor 
Jupe was to “enliven the varied performances at frequent 
intervals with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts.” 
Lastly, he was to wind them up by appearing in his favorite 
character of Mr. William Button, of Toolcy Street, in “the 
highly novel and laughable hippo-comedietta of The Tailor’s 
Journey to Brentford.” 

Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of these trivialities of 
course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on, 
either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or con- 
signing them to the House of Correction. But, the turning of 
the road took him by the back of the booth, and at the back 
of the booth a number of children were congregated in a num- 
ber of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden 
glories of the place. 

This brought him to a stop. “Now, to think of these 
vagabonds,” said he, “ attracting the young rabble from a 
model school.” 

A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being between 
him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of his 
waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might 
order off. Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly 
seen, what did he then behold but his own metallurgical 
Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole in a deal 
board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on 
the ground to catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian 
Tyrolesain flower-act ! 

Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to the spot 
where his family was disgraced, laid his hand upon each err- 
ing child, and said : 

“ Louisa ! ! Thomas ! ! ” 

Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked at 
her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, 
Thomas did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken 
home like a machine. 

Ip the name of wonder, idleness, and folly ! ” said Mr. 


A LOOPHOLE. 


551 

Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand ; ‘‘ what do you do 
here 

“Wanted to see what it was like/’ returned Louisa^ 
shortly. 

“ What it was like ? ” 

“ Yes, father.” 

There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both, and 
particularly in the girl : yet, struggling through the dissatis- 
faction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, 
a fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life 
in itself somehow, which brightened its expression. Not with 
the brightness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain, 
eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painful in them, 
analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way. 

She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen ; but at no dis- 
tant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her 
father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. W ould 
have been self-wiiled (he thought in his eminently practical 
way) but for her bringing-up. 

“ Thomas, though I have the fact before me, I find it diffi- 
cult to believe that you, with your education and resources, 
should have brought your sister to a scene like this.” 

“I brought him^ father,” said Louisa, quickly. “I asked 
him to come.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeed to hear it. 
It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you worse, Louisa.” 

She looked at her father again, but no tear fell down her 
cheek. 

“You I Thomas and you, to whom the circle of the 
sciences is open ; Thomas and you, who may be said to be re- 
plete with facts ; Thomas and you, who have been trained to 
mathematical exactness ; Thomas and you here ! ” cried Mr. 
Gradgrind. “ In this degraded position ! I am amazed.” 

“ I was tired, father. I have been tired a long time,” said 
Louisa. 

“Tired 1 Of what ? ” asked the astonished father. 

“ I don’t know of what — of everything I think.” 

“ Say not another word,” returned Mr. Gradgrind. “You 
are childish. I will hear no more.” He did not speak again 
until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when he 
gravely broke out with : “ What would your best friends say, 
Louisa? Do you attach no value to their good opinion? 
What would Mr. Bounderby say ? ” 


SS2 


HAI^n TIMES. 


At the mention of this name, his daughter stole a look at 
him, remarkable for its intense and searching character. He 
saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again 
cast down her eyes ! 

‘‘What,’’ he repeated presently, “would Mr. Bounderby 
say 'i ” All the way to Stone Lodge, as with grave indigna- 
tion he led the two delinquents home, he repeated at intervals 
“ What would Mr. Bounderby say ! ” — as if Mr. Bounderby 
had been Mrs^ Grundy. 


CHAPTER IV. 

M R . BOUND ER BY. 

Not being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr. Bounderby 

Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Gradgrind’s 
bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can ap- 
proach that spiritual relationship towards another man per- 
fectly devoid of sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounderby — or, 
if the reader should prefer it, so far off. 

He was a rich man : banker, merchant, manufacturer, and 
what not. A big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic laugh. 
A man made out of a coarse material, which seemed to have 
been stretched to make so much of him. A man with a great 
puffed, head and forehead, swelled veins in his temples, and 
such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to hold his eyes 
open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading ap- 
pearance on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to 
start. A man who could never sufficiently vaunt himself a 
self-made man. A man who was always proclaiming, through 
that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his old igno- 
rance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of hu 
mility. 

A year or two younger than his eminently practical friend, 
Mr. Bounderby looked older ; his seven or eight and forty 
might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without 
surprising anybody. He had not much hair. One might 
have fancied he had talked it off ; and that what was left, all 
standing up in disorder, was in that condition from being con- 
stantly blown about by his windy boastfulness. 


MR. SOUNDERBY, 


553 


In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing on 
the hearthrug, drawing himself before the fire, Mr. Bounder- 
by delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the cir- 
cumstance of its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, 
partly because it was a cool spring afternoon, though the sun 
shone ; partly because the shade of Stone Lodge was always 
haunted by the ghost of damp mortar ; partly because he thus 
took up a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. 
Gradgrind. 

‘‘I hadn’fa shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, I didn’t 
know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a ditch, and 
the night in a pigsty. That’s the way I spent my tenth birth- 
day. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a 
ditch.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bundle of 
shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily ; who was 
always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever 
the showed a symptom of coming to life, was invariably 
stunned by some weighty piece of fact tumbling on her ; Mrs. 
Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch ? 

“ No ! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it,” said Mr. 
Bounderby. 

“ Enough to give a baby cold,” Mrs. Gradgrind con- 
sidered. 

“ Cold t I was born with inflammation of the lungs, and 
of everything else, I believe, that was capable of inflamma- 
tion,”. returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘‘For years, ma’am, I was 
one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. *1 was so 
sickly, that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so 
ragged and dirty, that you wouldn’t have touched me with a 
pair of tongs.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the most 
appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing. 

‘‘ How I fought through it, I don’t know,” said Bounder- 
by. ‘‘ I was determined, I suppose. I have been a deter-* 
mined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here 
I am, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my 
being here, but myself.” 

Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his 
mother — 

“ My mother ? Bolted, ma’am ! ” said Bounderby. 

Afrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave it up. 

“ My mother left me to my grandmother,” said Bounderby \ 


554 


I/AA^B TIMES. 


‘‘ and, according to the best of my remembrance, my grand- 
mother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that ever 
lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would 
tafke ^em off and sell ’em for drink. Why, I have known that 
grandmother of mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen 
glasses of liquor before breakfast ! ” 

Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no other sign 
of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an indifferently 
executed transparency of a small female figure, without enough 
light behind it. 

She kept a chandler’s shop,” pursued Bounderby, “ and 
kept me in an egg-box. That was the cot of my infancy ; an 
old egg-box. As soon as I was big enough to run away, of 
course I ran away. Then I became a young vagabond ; and 
instead of one old woman knocking me about and starving 
me, everybody of all ages knocked me about and starved me. 
They were right ; they had no business to do anything else. 
I was a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that 
very well.” 

His pride in having at any time of his life achieved such a 
great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an incumbrance, 
and a pest, was only to be satisfied \yy three sonorous repiti- 
tions of the boast. 

I was to pull through it I suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. 
Whether I was to do it or not, ma’am, I did it. I pulled 
through it, though nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, 
errand-boy, vagabond, laborer, porter, clerk, chief manager, 
small partner, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Those are the 
antecedents, and the culmination. Josiah Bounderby of Coke- 
town learnt his letters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. 
Gradgrind, and was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, 
from studying the steeple clock of St. Giles’s Church, London, 
under the direction of a drunken cripple, who was a convicted 
thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown, of your district schools and 3^our model schools, 
and your training schools, and your whole kettle-of-fish of 
schools ; and Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, tells you plain- 
ly, all right, all correct — he hadn’t such advantages — but let 
us have hard-headed, solid-fisted people — the education that 
made him won’t do for everybody, he knows well — such and 
such his education was, however, and you may force him to 
swallow boiling fat, but you shall never force him to suppress 
the facts of his life.” 


MR. BOUNDERBY. 


565 


Being heated when he arrived at this climax, Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown stopped. He stopped just as his 
eminently practical friend, still accompanied by the two young 
culprits, entered the room. His eminently practical friend, on 
seeing him, stopped also, and gave Louisa a reproachful look 
that plainly said, ‘‘ Behold your Bounderby ! ” 

“ Well ! blustered Mr. Bounderby, “ what’s the matter 1 
What is young Thomas in the dumps about ? ” 

He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked at Louisa. 

^‘W^e were peeping at the circus,” muttered Louisa, 
haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, ‘‘and father caught us.” 

“ And Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband in a lofty mam 
ner, “ I should as soon have expected to find my children 
reading poetry.” ^ 

“ Dear me,” wLimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. “ How can you, 
Louisa and Thomas ! I w^onder at you. I declare you’re 
enough to make one regret ever having had a family at all. I 
have a great mind to say I wish I hadn’t. Then what would 
you have done, I should like to know.” 

Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favorably impressed by these 
cogent remarks. He frowned impatiently. 

“ As if, with my head in its present throbbing state, you 
couldn’t go and look at the shells and minerals and- things 
provided for you, instead of circuses ! ” said Mrs. Gradgrind. 
“ You know, as well as I do, no young people have circus 
masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, or attend lectures about 
circuses. What can you possibly want to know of circuses 
then ? I am sure you have enough to do, if that’s what you 
want. With my head in its present state, I couldn’t remem- 
ber the mere names of half the facts you have got to attend 
to.” 

“ That’s the reason ! ” pouted Louisa. 

“ Don’t tell me that’s the reason, because it can be noth- 
ing of the sort ” said Mrs. Gradgrind. “ Go and be some- 
thingological directly.” Mrs. Gradgrind was not a scien- 
tific character, and usually dismissed her children to their 
studies with this general injunction to choose their pursuit. 

In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind’s stock of facts in general was 
woefully defective ; but Mr. Gradgrind in raising her to her 
high matrimonial position, had been influenced by two reasons. 
Firstly, she was most satisfactory as a question of figures ; 
and, secondly, she had “ no nonsense ” about her. By non- 
sense he meant fancy ; and truly it is probable she was as free 


HARD TIMES. 


55 ^ 

from any alloy of that nature, as any human being not arrived 
at the perfection of an absolute idiot, ever was. 

The simple circumstance of being left alone with her hus- 
band and Mr. Bounderby, was sufficient to stun this admirable 
lady again without collision between herself and any other 
fact. So, she once more died away, and nobody minded her. 

‘‘ Bounderby,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing a chair to the 
fireside, you are always so interested in my young people — 
particularly in Louisa — that I make no apology for saying to 
you, I am very much vexed by this discovery. I have syste- 
matically devoted myself (as you know) to the education of 
the reason of my family. The reason is (as you know) the 
only faculty to which education should be addressed. And 
yet, Bounderby, it would appear from this unexpected circum- 
stance of to-day, though in itself a trifling one, as if something 
had crept into Thomas’s and Louisa’s minds which is — or 
rather, which is not — I don’t know that I can express myself 
better than by saying — which has never been intended to be 
developed, and in which their reason has no part.” 

There certainly is no reason in looking with interest at a 
parcel of vagabonds,” returned Bounderby. When I was a 
vagabond myself, nobody looked with any interest at me ; I 
know that.” 

Then comes the question,” said the eminently practical 
father, with his eyes on the fire, in what has this vulgar 
curiosity its rise ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you in what. In idle imagination.” 

I hope not,” said the eminently practical ; “ I confess, 
however, that the misgiving has crossed me on my way 
home.” 

In idle imagination, Gradgrind,” repeated Bounderby. 
A very bad thing for anybody, but a cursed bad thing for a 
girl like Louisa. I should ask Mrs. Gradgrind’s pardon for 
strong expressions, but that she knows very well I am not a 
refinedv character. Whoever expects refinement in me will be 
disappointed. I hadn’t a refined bringing up.” 

“ Whether,” said Mr. Gradgrind, pondering with his 
hands in his pockets, and his cavernous eyes on the fire, 
‘‘ whether any instructor or servant can have suggested 
anything ? Whether Louisa or Thomas can have been read- 
ing anything ? Whether, in spite of all precautions, any idle 
story-book can have got into the house Because, in minds 
that have been practically formed by rule and line, from the 
cradle upwards, this is so curious, so incomprehensible.” 


MR. BOUNDERS Y. 


557 


“ Stop a bit ! cried Bounderby, who all this time had 
been standing, as before, on the hearth, bursting at the very 
furniture of the room with explosive humility. “You have' 
one of those stroller’s children in the school.” 

“ Cecilia Jupe, by name,” said Mr. Gradgrind, with some- 
thing of a stricken look at his friend. 

“ Now, stop a bit ! ” cried Bounderby again. “ How did 
she come there ” 

“ Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself, for the first time, 
only just now. She specially applied here at the house to be 
admitted, as not regularly belonging to our town, and — yes, 
you are right, Bounderby, you are right.” 

“ Now, stop a bit ! ” cried Bounderby once more. “ Louisa 
saw her when she came ? ” 

“ Louisa certainly did see her, for she mentioned the 
application to me. But Louisa saw her, I have no doubt, in 
Mrs. Gradgrind’s presence.” 

“ Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, “ what passed ” 

“ Oh, my poor health ! ” returned Mrs. Gradgrind. “ The 
girl wanted to come to the school, and Mr. Gradgrind wanted 
girls to come to the school, and Louisa and Thomas both said 
that the girl wanted to come, and that Mr. Gradgrind wanted 
girls to come, and how was it possible to contradict them 
when such was the fact ! ” 

“ Now I tell you what, Gradgrind !” said Mr. Bounderby. 
“ Turn this girl to the right about, and there’s an end of it.” 

“ I am much of your opinion.” 

“ Do it at once,” said Bounderby, “ has always been my 
motto from a child. When I thought I would run away from 
my egg-bo.^ and my grandmother, I did it at once. Do you 
the same. Do this at once ! ” 

“ Are you walking ? ” asked his friend. “ I have the 
father’s address. Perhaps you would not mind walking to 
town with me ” 

“Not the least in the world,” said Mr. Bounderby, “as 
long as you do it at once ! ” 

So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat — he always threw it 
on, as expressing a man who had been far too "busily em- 
ployed in making himself, to acquire any fashion of wearing 
his hat — and with his hands in his pockets, sauntered out into 
the hall. “ I never wear gloves,” it was his custom to say. 
“ I didn’t climb up the ladder in them. Shouldn’t be so high 
up, if I had.” 


55S 


//AA^D TIMES. 


Being left to saunter in the hall a minute or two while Mr. 
Gradgrind went up stairs for the address, he opened the door 
of the children’s study and looked into that serene lioor-clothed 
apartment, which, notwithstanding its book-cases and its ca^ 
binets and its variety of learned and philosophical appliances, 
had much of the genial aspect of a room devoted to hair- 
cutting. Louisa languidly leaned upon the window looking 
out, wthout looking at anything, while young Thomas stood 
sniffing revengefully at the fire. Adam Smith and Malthus, 
two younger Gradg’rinds, were out at lecture in custody ; and 
little Jane, after manufacturing a good deal of moist pipe-clay 
on her face with slate-pencil and tears, had fallen asleep over 
vulgar fractions. 

It’s all right now, Louisa ; it’s all right, young dliomas,” 
said Mr. Bounderby ; ^‘you won’t do so any more. I’ll 
answer for it’s being all over with father. Well, Louisa, that’s 
worth a kiss, isn’t it ” , 

‘‘ You can take one, Mr. Bounderby,” returned Louisa, 
when she had coldly paused, and slowly walked across the 
room, and ungraciously raised her cheek towards him, with 
her face turned away. 

“ Always my pet ; ain’t you, Louisa ? ” said Mr. Bounderby. 

Good-by, Louisa ! ” 

He went his way, but she stood on the same spot, rubbing 
the cheek he had kissed, with her handkerchief, until it was 
burning red. She was still doing this, five minutes afterwards. 

‘‘ What are you about. Loo ? ” her brother sulkily remon- 
strated. You’ll rub a hole in your face.” 

“ You may cut the piece out with your penknife if you like, 
Tom. I wouldn’t cry J ” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE KEY-NOTE. 

CoKETOWN, to which Messrs. Bounderby and Gradgrind 
now walked, was a triumph of fact ; it had no greater taint of 
fancy in it than Mrs. Gradgrind herself. Let us strike the^ 
key-note. Coketown, before pursuing our tune. 


THE KEY-NOTE, 


559 


It was a town of red brick, or of brick that would have 
been red i£ the smoke and ashes had allowed it \ but as 
matters stood it was a town of unnatural red and black like 
the painted face of a savage. It was a town of machinery and 
tall chimneys, out of which interminable serpents of smoke 
trailed themselves for ever and ever, and never got uncoiled. 
It had a black canal in it, and a river than ran purple with ill- 
smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where 
there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where 
the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and 
down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy 
madness. It contained several large streets all very like one 
another, and many small streets still more like one another, 
inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in 
and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the 
same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day 
was the same as yesterday and to-morrow, and every year the 
counterpart of the last and the next. 

These attributes of Coketown were in the main inseparable 
from the work by which it was sustained ; against them were 
to be set off, comforts of life which found their way all over 
the world, and elegancies of life which made, w^e will not ask 
how much of the fine lady, who could scarcely bear to hear 
the place mentioned. The rest of its features were voluntary, 
and they were these. 

You saw nothing in Coketown but what was severely 
workful. If the members of a religious persuasion built a 
chapel there-^as the members of eighteen religious per- 
suasions had done — they made it a pious warehouse of red 
brick, with sometimes (but this is only in highly ornamented 
examples) a bell in a bird-cage on the top of it. The solitary 
exception was the New. Church ; a stuccoed edifice with a 
square steeple over the door, terminating in four short pin- 
nacles like florid wooden legs. All the public inscriptions in 
the town were painted alike, in severe characters of black and 
white. The jail might have been the infirmary, the infirmary 
might have been the jail, the town-hall might have been 
either, or both, or anything else, for anything that appeared 
to the contrary in the graces of their construction. Fact, 
fact, fact, everywhere in the material aspect of the town ; fact, 
fact, fact, everywhere in the immaterial. The M‘Choakum- 
child school was all fact, and the school of design was all fact, 
and the relations between master and man were all fact, and 


JIA/CjD times. 


560 

everything was fact between the lying-in hospital and the 
cemetery, and what you couldn’t state in figures, or show to 
be purchaseable in the cheapest market and saleable in the 
dearest, was not, and never should be, world without end. 
Amen. 

A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant in its asser- 
tion, of course got on well ^ Why no, not quite well. No ? 
Dear me ! 

No. Coketown did not come out of its own furnaces, in 
all respects like gold that had stood the fire. First, the per- 
plexing mystery of the place was. Who belonged to the eigh- 
teen denominations ? Because, whoever did, the laboring 
people did not. It was very strange to walk through the 
streets on a Sunday morning, and- note how few of if/iem the 
barbarous jangling of bells that was driving the sick and ner- 
vous mad, called away from their own quarter, from their own 
close rooms, from the corners of their own streets, where they 
lounged listlessly, gazing at all the church and chapel going, as 
at a thing with which they had no manner of concern. Nor 
was it merely the stranger who noticed this, because there 
was a native organization in Coketown itself, whose members 
were to be heard of in the House of Commons every session, 
indignantly petitioning for acts of parliament that should 
make these people religious by main force. Then came the 
Teetotal Society, who complained that these same people 
would get drunk, and showed in tabular statements that they 
did get drunk, and proved at tea parties that no inducement, 
human or Divine (except a medal), would induce them to 
forego their custom of getting drunk. Then came the chem- 
ist and druggist, with other tabular statements, showing that 
when they didn’t get drunk, they took opium. Then came 
the experienced chaplain of the jail, with more tabular state- 
ments, outdoing all the previous tabular statements, and 
showing that the same people would resort to low haunts, hid- 
den from the public eye, where they heard low singing and 
saw low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A. B., 
aged twenty-four next birthday, and committed for eighteen 
months, solitary, had himself said (not that he had ever shown 
himself particularly worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he 
was perfectly sure and confident that otherwise he would have 
been a tip-top moral specimen. Then came Mr. Gradgrind 
and Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present mo- 
ment walking through Coketown, and both eminently practi' 


THE KEY-NOTE. 


561 

cal, who could, on occasion, furnish more tabular statements 
derived from their own personal experience, and illustrated 
by cases they had known and seen, from which it clearly ap- 
peared — in short, it was the only clear thing in the case — 
that these same people were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen ; 
that do what you would for them they were never thankful for 
it, gentleme^ ; that they were restless, gentlemen ; that they 
never knew what they wanted ; that they lived upon the best, 
and bought fresh butter ; and insisted on Mocha coffee, 
and rejected all but prime parts of meat ; and yet were eter- 
nally dissatisfied and unmanageable. In short, it was the 
moral of the old nursery fable : 

There was an old woman, and what do you think? 

She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; 

Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet, 

And yet this old woman would never be quiet. 

Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any analogy be- 
tween the case of the Coketown population and the case of 
the little Gradgrinds ? Surely, none of us in our sober senses 
and acquainted with figures, are to be told at this time of day, 
that one of the foremost elements in the existence of the 
Coketown working-people had been for scores of years, delib- 
erately set at naught t That there was any Fancy in them 
demanding to be brought into healthy existence instead of 
struggling on in convulsions ? That exactly in the ratio as 
they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew within 
them for some physical relief — some relaxation, encouraging 
good-humor and good spirits, and giving them a vent — some 
recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest dance to 
a stirring band of music — some occasional light pie in which 
’even M‘Choakumchild had no finger — which craving must 
and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably 
go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were repealed 't 

‘‘ This man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t quite know 
Pod’s End,” said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘‘Which is it, Bounderby ?” 

Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but 
knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, 
looking about. 

Almost as they did so, there came running round the cor- 
ner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a 
girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized. “ Halloa ! ” said he. 
“Stop! Where are you going! Stop!” Girl number 
twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey. 


562 


HARD TIMES. 


Why are you tearing about the streets,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind, in this improper manner ? ” 

I was — I was run after, sir,” the girl panted, ‘‘and I 
wanted to get away.” 

“Run after?” repeated Mr. Gradgrind. “Who would 
run after yoic f ” 

The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered 
for her, by the colorless boy, Bitzer, who came round the 
corner with such blind speed, and so little anticipating a stop- 
page on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. 
Gradgrind’s waistcoat, and rebounded into the road. 

“ What do you mean, boy ? ” said Mr. Gradgrind. “ Wbat 
are you doing ? How dare you dash against — everybody — in 
this manner ? ” 

Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had knocked 
-Dff ; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it 
was an accident. 

“ Was this boy running after you, Jupe ?” asked Mr. Grad- 
grind. 

“ Yes, sir,” said the girl reluctantly. 

“No, I wasn’t, sir!” cried Bitzer. “Not till she run 
away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they 
say, sir; they’re famous for it. You know the horse-riders 
are famous for never minding what they say,” addressing 
Sissy. “ It’s as well known in the town as — please, sir, as the 
multiplication table isn’t known to the horse-riders.” Bitzer 
tried Mr. Bounderby with this. 

“ He frightened me so,” said the girl, “ with his cruel 
faces ! ” 

“ Oh I ” cried Bitzer. “ Oh 1 An’t you one of the rest ! 
An’t you a horse-rider ? I never looked at her, sir. I asked 
her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, 
and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran 
after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she 
was asked. You wouldn’t have thought of saying such mis- 
chief if you hadn’t been a horse-rider ? ” 

“ Her calling seems to be pretty well known among ’em,” 
observed Mr. Bounderby. “ You’d have had the whole school 
peeping in a row, in a week.” 

“Truly, I think so,” returned his friend. “Bitzer, turn 
you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a mo- 
ment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, 
boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. 
You understand what I mean. Go along.” 


T/JE KE y-NO TE. 5 63 

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his fore- 
head again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. 

Now, girl,” said Mr. Gradgrind, take this gentleman 
and me to your father’s ; we are going there. What have you 
got in that bottle you are carrying ? ” 

“ Gin,” said Mr. Bounderby. 

“ Dear, no, sir ! It’s the nine oils.” 

“ The what ? ” cried Mr. Bounderby. 

‘‘The nine oils, sir. To rub father with.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud, short laugh, 
“ what the devil do you rub your father with the nine oils 
for ? ” 

“ It’s what our people always use, sir, when they get any 
hurts in the ring,” replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, 
to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. “ They bruise 
themselves very bad sometimes.” 

’ “ Serve ’em right,” said Mr. Bounderby, “for being idle.” 
She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and 
dread. 

“By George!” said Mr. Bounderb}/-, “when I was four 
or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises upon me 
than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. 
I didn’t get ’em by posture-making, but by being banged 
about. There was no rope-dancing for me ; I danced on the 
bare ground and was larruped with the rope.” 

Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so 
rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was not un- 
kind, all things considered ; it might have been a very kind 
one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the 
arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in what he 
meant for a re-assuring tone, as they turned down a narrow 
road, “ And this is Pod’s End ; is it, Jupe ” 

“ This is it, sir, and — if you wouldn’t mind, sir — this is the 
house.” 

She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public 
house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, 
as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and 
had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end 
of it. 

“ It’s only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you 
wouldn’t mind, and waiting there for a moment till I get a 
candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it’s only Merrylegs, and 
he only barks.” 


TIMES. 


5^4 

Merrylegs and nine oils, eh ! said Mr. Bounderby, 
entering last with his metallic laugh. “ Pretty well this, for a 
self-made man ! 


CHAPTER VI. 
sleary’s horsemanship. 

The name of the public house was the Pegasus^s Arms. 
The Pegasus’s legs might have been more to the purpose ; 
but, underneath the winged horse upon the sign- board, the 
Pegasus’s Arms was inscribed in Roman letters. Beneath 
that inscription again, in a flowing scroll, the painter had 
touched off the lines : 

Good malt makes good beer, 

Walk in, and they’ll draw it here J 
Good wine makes good brandy. 

Give us a call, and you’ll find it handy. 

Framed and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy little 
bar, was another Pegasus — a theatrical one — ^with real gauze 
let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and 
his ethereal harness made of red silk. 

As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign, and 
as it had not grown light enough within to see the picture, 
Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby received no offence from 
these idealities. They followed the girl up some steep corner- 
stairs without meeting any one, and stopped in the dark while 
she went on for a candle. They expected every moment to 
hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly trained perform- 
ing dog had not barked when the girl and the candle appeared 
together. 

“ Father is not in our room, sir,” she said, with a face of 
great surprise. If you wouldn’t mind walking in. I’ll find 
him directly.” 

They walked in ; and Sissy, having set two chairs for them, 
sped away with a quick light step. It was a mean, shabbily 
furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-cap, 
embellished with two peacock’s feathers and a pigtail bolt 
upright, in which Signor Jupe had that very afternoon enliv* 


SLEARY^S HORSEMANSHIP, 


5^5 

ened the varied performances with his chaste Shakspearian 
quips and retorts, hung upon a nail ; but no other portion of 
his wardrobe, or other token of himself or his pursuits, was to 
be seen anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that respectable ances- 
tor of the highly trained animal who went aboard the ark, 
might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any sign of a 
dog that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pagasus’s Arms. 

They heard the doors of rooms above, opening and shut- 
ting as Sissy went from one to another in quest of her father ; 
and presently they heard voices expressing surprise. She 
came bounding down again in a great hurry, opened a bat- 
tered and mangy old hair trunk, found it empty, and looked 
round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror. 

Father must have gone down to the Booth, sir. I don't 
know why he should go there, but he must be there ; I’ll bring 
him in a minute ! ” She was gone directly, without her bon- 
net ; with her long, dark, childish hair streaming behind her. 

‘‘ What does she mean ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind. Back in 
a minute 1 It’s more than a mile off.” 

Before Mr. Bounderby could reply a young man appeared 
at the door, and introducing himself with the words, By 
your leave, gentlemen ! ” walked in with his hands in his 
pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded 
by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all round his 
head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, 
but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. 
His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were 
too short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat and tight- 
fitting trousers ; wore a shawl round his neck ; smelt of lamp- 
oil, straw, orange-peel, horses’ provender, and sawdust; and 
looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of 
the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the 
other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This 
gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr. E. 
W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting 
act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies ; 
in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old 
face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son : 
being carried upside down over his father’s shoulder, by one 
foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the 
palm of his father’s hand, according to the violent paternal 
manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle 
their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white 
bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into 


HARD TIMES. 


566 

SO pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the 
maternal part of the spectators ; but in private, where his 
characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an ex- 
tremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy. 

“ By your leave, gentlemen,’’ said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, 
glancing round the room. It was you, I believe, that were 
wishing to see Jupe ! ” 

It was,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “ His daughter has gone 
to fetch him, but I can’t wait ; therefore, if you please, I will 
leave a message for him with you.” 

“You see, my friend,” Mr. Bounderby put in, “we are the 
kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the 
kind of people who don’t know the value of time.” 

“ I have not,” retorted Mr. Childers, after surveying him 
from head to foot, “ the honor of knowing you ^ — but if you 
mean that you can make more more money of your time than 
I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you 
are abouf right.” 

“ And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should 
think,” said Cupid. 

“ Kidderminster, stow that ! ” said Mr. Childers. (Master 
Kidderminster was CujDid’s mortal name.) 

“ What does he come here cheeking us for, then ? ” cried 
Master Kidderminster, shov/ing a very irascible temperament. 
“ If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors nnd 
take it out.” 

“ Kidderminster,” said Mr. Childers, raising his voice, 
“ stow that ! — Sir,” to Mr. Gradgrind, “ I was addressing my- 
self to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps 
you have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed 
his tip very often, lately.” 

“ Has — what has he missed ? ” asked Mr. Gradgrind, 
glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. 

“ Missed his tip.” 

“ Offered at the Garters four times last night, and never 
aone ’em once,” said Master Kidderminster. “ Missed his tip 
at the banners, too, and was loose in his ponging.” 

“ Didn’t do what he ought to do. Was short in his leaps 
and bad in his tumbling,’’ Mr. Childers interpreted. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ that is tip, is it ? ” 

“In a general way that’s missing his tip,” Mr. E. W. B, 
Childers answered. 

“ Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and 


SLEA R V HORSEMANSHIP, 567 

bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into 
Ponging, eh ! ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. 
“ Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised him- 
self.” 

“ Lower yourself, then,” retorted Cupid. “ Oh Lord ! if 
you’ve raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let your- 
self down a bit.” 

“ This is a very obtrusive lad ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind, turn- 
ing, and knitting his brows on him. 

“ We’d have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we 
had known you were coming,” retorted Master Kiddermin- 
ster, nothing abashed. “ It’s a pity you don’t have a be- 
speak, being so particular. You’re on the Tight-Jeff, ain’t 
you ? ” 

“What does this unmannerly boy mean,” asked Mr. Grad- 
grind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, “by Tight-Jeff?” 

“ There ! Get out, get out ! ” said Mr. Childers, thrusting 
his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. 
Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don’t much signify: it’s only tight- 
rope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message 
for Jupe ? ” 

“ Yes, I was.” 

“ Then,” continued Mr. Childers, quickly, “ my opinion is 
he will never receive it. Do you know much of him ? ” 

“ I never saw the man in my life.” 

“ I doubt if you ever will see him now. It’s pretty plain 
to me, he’s off.” 

“ Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter ? ” 

“Ay! I mean,” said Mr. Childers, with a nod, “that he 
has cut. He was goosed, last night, he was goosed the night 
before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the 
way of being always goosed, and he can’t stand it.” 

“ Why has he been — so very much — Goosed ? ” asked Mr. 
Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solem- 
nity and reluctance. 

“ His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used up,” 
said Childers. “ He has his points as a Cackler still, but he 
can’t get a living out of theml^ 

“ A Cackler 1 ” Bounderby repeated. “ Here we go 
again ! ” 

“A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better,” said Mr. E. 
W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over 
his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long 


//AA^jD times. 


$68 

hair — which all shook at once. “ Now, it"s a remark able fact, 
sir, that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter 
knew of his being goosed, than to go through with it.’’ 

“ Good ! ” interrupted Mr. Bounderby. “ This is good, 
Gradgrind ! A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs 
away from her ! This is devilish good ! Ha ! ha ! Now, I’ll 
tell you what, young man. I haven’t always occupied my 
present station of life. I know what these things are. You 
may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran away from 

E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all 
astonished to hear it. 

“ Very well,” said Bounderby. “ I was born in a ditch, 
and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it 
No. Have I ever excused her for it ? Not I. What do I call 
her for it ? 1 call her probably the very worst woman that ever 

lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There’s 
no family pride about me, there’s no imaginative sentimental 
humbug about me. I call a spade a spade ; and I call the 
mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or 
any favor, what I should call her if she had been the mother 
of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a run- 
away rogue and a vagabond, that’s what he is, in English.” 

“ It’s all the same to me what he is or what he is not, 
whether in English or whether in French,” retorted Mr. E. W. 
B. Childers, facing about. “ I am telling your friend what’s 
the fact j if you don’t like to hear it, you can avail yourself of 
the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do ; but give it 
mouth in your own building at least,” remonstrated E. W. B. 
with stern irony. ‘‘ Don’t give it mouth in this building, till 
you’re called upon. You have got some building of your own, 
I dare say, now ? ” 

“ Perhaps so,” replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his money 
and laughing. 

“ Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you 
please ? ” said Childers. “ Because this isn’t a strong build- 
ing, and too much of you might bring it down ! ” 

Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned 
from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Grad- 
grind. 

“ Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, 
and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his 
eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. 


SLEARY'S HORSEMANSHIP, 569 

She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away, and left 
her.” 

“Fray,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “why will she never believe 
it of him?” 

“ Because those two were one. Because they were never 
asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon 
her,”' said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the 
empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster 
walked in a curious manner ; with their legs wider apart than 
the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption 
of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the 
male members of Sleary’s coijipany, and was understood to 
express, that they were always on horseback. 

“ Poor Sissy ! He had better have apprenticed her,” said 
Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from 
the empty box. “ Now, he leaves her without anything to 
take to.” 

“It is creditable to you, who have never been apprenticed, 
to express that opinion,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, approvingly. 

“/never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was 
seven year old.” 

“ Oh ! Indeed ? ” said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, 
as having been defrauded of his good opinion. “I was not 
aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons 
to ” 

“Idleness,” Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. 
“ No, by the Lord Harry ! Nor I ! ” 

“ Her father always had it in his head,” resumed Childers, 
feigning unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby’s existence, “ that 
she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it 
got into his head, I can’t say ; I can only say that it never 
got out. He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, 
here — and a bit of writing for her, there — and a bit of cipher- 
ing for her, somewhere else — these seven years.” 

Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his 
pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good 
deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the 
first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake 
of the deserted girl. 

“ When Sissy got into the school here,” he pursued, “ her 
father was as pleased as Punch. I couldn’t altogether make 
out why, myself, as we were not stationary here, being but 
comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, however, he had this 


570 


//A/^D TIMES, 


move in his mind — he was always half-cracked — and then 
considered her provided for. If you should happen to have 
looked ill to-night, for the purpose of telling him that you 
were going to do her any little service,’^ said Mr. Childers, 
stroking his face again, and repeating his look, “it would 
be very fortunate and well-timed ; very fortunate and well- 
timed/^ 

“ On the contrary,’’ returned Mr. Gradgrind. “ I came 
to tell him that her connections made her not an object for 
the school, and that she must not attend any more. Still, if 
her father really has left her, without any connivance on her 
part — Bounderby, let me have a word with you.” 

Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betook himself, with his 
equestrian walk, to the landing outside the door, and there 
stood stroking his face, and softly whistling. While thus en- 
gaged, he overheard such phrases in Mr. Bounderby’s voice 
as “ No. I say no. I advise you not. I say by no means.” 
While, from Mr. Gradgrind, he heard in his much lower tone 
the words, “ But even as an example to Louisa, of what this 
pursuit which has been the subject of a vulgar curiosity, 
leads to and ends in. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point 
of view.” 

Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary’s company 
gradually gathered together from the upper regions, where 
they were quartered, and, from standing about, talking in low 
voices to one : another and to Mr. Childers, gradually insinu- 
ated themselves and him into the room. There were two or 
three handsome young women among them, with their two or 
three husbands, and their two or three mothers, and their 
eight or nine little children, who did the fairy business when 
required. The father of one of the families was in the habit 
of balancing the father of another of the families on the top 
of a great pole ; the father of a third family often made a 
pyramid of both those fathers, with Master Kidderminster 
for the apex, and himself for the base ; all the fathers could 
dance upon rolling casks, stand upon bottles, catch knives 
and balls, twirl hand-basins, ride upon anything, jump over 
everything, and stick at nothing. All the mothers could (and 
did) dance, upon the slack wire and the tight rope, and per- 
form rapid acts on bare-backed steeds ; none of them were at 
all particular in respect of showing their legs ; and one of 
them, alone in a Greek chariot, drove six in hand into every 
town they came to. They all assumed to be mighty rakish 


SLEARY^S HORSEMANSHIP. 


57 ^ 


and knowing, they were not very tidy in their private dresses, 
they were not at all orderly in their domestic arrangements, 
and the combined literature of the whole company would 
have produced but a poor letter on any subject. Yet there 
was a remarkable gentleness and childishness about these 
people, a special inaptitude for any kind of sharp practice, 
and an untiring readiness to help and pity one another, de- 
serving often of as much respect, and always of as much 
generous construction, as the every-day virtues of any class 
of people in the world. 

Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary ; a stout man as already 
mentioned, with one fixed eye, and one loose eye, a voice (if 
it can be called so) like the efforts of a broken old pair of 
bellows, a flabby surface, and a muddled head which was 
never sober and never drunk. 

‘‘ Thquire ! ’’ said Mr. Sleary, who was troubled with 
asthma, and whose breath came far too thick and heavy for 
the letter s, “Your thervant I Thith ith a bad pie the of 
bithnith, thith ith. You’ve heard of my Clown and hith dog 
being thuppothed to have morrithed ” 

He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered ‘‘ Yes.” 

“Well, Thquire,” he returned, taking off* his hat, and 
rubbing the lining with his pocket-handkerchief, which he 
kept inside for the purpose. “ Ith it your intenthion to do 
anything for the poor girl, Thquire ? ” 

I shall have something to propose to her when she comes 
back,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

, “ Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want to get rid of 
the child, any more than I want to thtand in her way. I’m 
.willing to take her prentith, though at her age ith late. My 
voithe ith a little huthky, Thquire, and not eathy heard by 
them ath don’t know me ; but if you’d been chilled and 
heated, heated and chilled, chilled and heated in the ring 
when you wath young, ath often ath I have been, your voithe 
wouldn’t have lathted out, Thquire, no more than mine.” 

“ I dare say not,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait ? Thall it be 
Therry Give it a name, Thquire ! ” said Mr, Sleary, with 
hospitable ease. 

“ Nothing forme, I thank you,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ Don’t thay nothing, Thquire. What doth your friend 
thay ? If you haven’t took ydur feed yet, have a glath of 
bitterth.” 


572 


TIMES, 


Here his daughter Josephine — a pretty fair-haired girl 'of 
eighteen, who had been tied on a horse at two years old, and 
had made a will at twelve, which she always carried about 
with her, expressive of her dying desire to be drawn to the 
grave by the two piebald ponies — cried, “ Father, hush ! she 
has come back ! ’’ Then came Sissy Jupe, running into the 
room as she had run out of it. And when she saw them all 
assembled, and saw their looks, and saw no father there, she 
broke into a most deplorable cry, and took refuge on the 
bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady (herself in 
the family way), who knelt down on the floor to nurse her, 
and to weep over her. 

“ Ith an infernal thame, upon my soul it ith,’’ said Sleary. 

0 my dear father, my good kind father, where are you 
gone ? You are gone to try to do me some good, I know ! You 
are gone away for my sake, I am sure ! And how miserable 
and helpless you will be without me, poor, poor father, until 
you come back ! ” It was so pathetic to hear her say many 
things of this kind, with her face turned upward, and her arms 
stretched out as if she were trying to stop his departing 
shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. 
Eounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand. 

“ Now, good people all,” said he, “ this is wanton waste 
of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let her take it 
from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself. 
Here, what’s your name ! Your father has absconded— de- 
serted you — and you mustn’t exjDect to see him again as long 
as you live.” 

They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were 
in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject, that in- 
stead of being impressed by the speaker’s strong common 
sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men mut- 
tered Shame ! ” and the women Brute ! ” and Sleary, in 
some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. 
Bounderby. 

1 tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my 
opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and drop it. 
They’re a very good natur’d people, my people, but they’re 
accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh ; and if you 
don’t act upon my advithe, I’m damned if I don’t believe 
they’ll pith you out o’ winder.” 

Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, 
Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical 
exposition of the subject. 


SLEARY'S HORSEMANSHIP. 


573 


It is of no moment/’ said he, ‘‘ whether this person is to 
be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone 
away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, 
I believe, is agreed on all hands.” 

Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that ! ” From Sleary. 

‘‘ Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of 
the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the 
school any more, in consequenee of there being practical 
objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception theie 
of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these 
altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to 
take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for 
you. The only condition (over and above your good beha- 
vior) I make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to 
accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany 
me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with 
any of your friends who are here present. These observa- 
tions comprise the whole of the case.” 

“ At the thame time,” said Sleary, I mutht put in my 
word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally 
theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the 
natur of the work, and you know your companionth. Emma 
Gordon, in whothe lap you’re a lying at prethent, would be a 
mother to you, and Joth’phine would be a thither to you. I 
don’t pretend to be of the angel breed myself, and I don’t thay 
but what, when you mith’d your tip, you’d find me cut up 
rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, 
Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did 
horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, 
and that I don’t expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time 
of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a Cackler, 
Thquire, and I have thed my thay.” 

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Grad- 
grind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, 
and then remarked : 

‘‘The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the 
way of influencing your decision, is, that it is highly desir- 
able to have a sound practical education, and that even your 
father himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, 
to have known and felt that much.” 

The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped 
in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gor- 
don, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole 


574 


HARD TIMES, 


company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long 
breath together, that plainly said, she will go ! ” 

“ Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,^’ Mr. Gradgrind 
cautioned her ; “ I say no more. Be sure you know your own 
mind ! ” 

When father comes back,” cried the girl, bursting into 
tears again after a minute’s silence, how will he ever find me 
if I go away ! ” 

“ You may be quite at ease,” said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly ; 
he worked out the whole matter like a sum : “ you may be 
quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, 
I apprehend, must find out Mr. ” 

“ Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not ashamed of 
it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith way.” 

“ Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him know 
where you went. I should have no power of keeping you 
against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, 
in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well 
known.” 

“ Well known,” assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose eye. 
“You’re one of the thort, Thquire, that keepth a prethiouth 
thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind that at 
prethent.” 

There was another silence ; and then she exclaimed, sob- 
bing with her hands before her face, “ Oh give me my clothes, 
give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my 
heart ! ” 

The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the clothes 
together — it was soon done, for they were not many — and to 
pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. 
Sissy sat all the time, upon the ground, still sobbing, and 
covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby 
stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary 
stood in the midddle of the room, with the male members of 
the company about him, exactly as he would have stood in the 
centre of the ring during his daughter Josephine’s performance. 
He wanted nothing but his whip. 

The basket packed in silence, they brought her bonnet to 
her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on. Then 
they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural 
attitudes, kissing and embracing her : and brought the chil- 
dren to take leave of her ; and were a tender-hearted, simple, 
foolish set of women altogether. 


SLEARY^S HORSEMANSHIP, 


575 

Now, Jupe,’^ said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘‘If you are quite 
determined, come ! ” 

But she had to take her farewell of the male part of the 
company yet, and everyone of them had to unfold his arms 
(for they all assumed the professional attitude when they 
found themselves near Sleary), and give her a parting kiss — 
Master Kidderminster excepted, in whose young nature there 
was an original flavor of the misanthrope, who was also known 
to have harbored matrimonial views, and who moodily with- 
drew. Mr. Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening his 
arms wide he took her by both her hands, and would have 
sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of 
congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid 
act ; but there was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood 
before him crying. 

“Good-by, my dear! ’’said Sleary. “You’ll make your 
fortun, I hope, and none of your poor folkth will ever trouble 
you. I’ll pound it. I with your father hadn’t taken hith dog 
with him; ith a ill-conwenienth to have a dog out of the billth. 
But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn’t have performed without 
hith mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long 1 ” 

With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed eye, 
surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, shook 
his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse. 

“ There the ith, Thquire,” he said, sweeping her with a 
professional glance as if she were being adjusted in her seat, 
“and the’ll do you juthtithe. Good-by, Thethilia I ” 

“ Good-by, Cecilia 1 ” “ Good-by, Sissy 1 ” “ God bless 

you, dear ! ” In a variety of voices from all the room. 

But the riding-master’s eye had obser\^ed the bottle of the 
nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with “ Leave 
the bottle, my dear ; ith large to carry ; it will be of no uthe 
to you now. Give it to me.” 

“No no ! ” she said, in another burst of tears. “ Oh, no ! 
Pray let me keep it for father till he comes back. He had 
never thought of going away, when he sent me for it. I must 
keep it for him, if you please I ” 

“Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith, Thquire!) 
Farewell, Thethilia ! My latht wordth to you ith thith, Thtick 
to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, 
and forget uth. But if, when you’re grown up and married 
and well off, you come upon any horthe-riding ever, don’t be 
hard upon it, don’t be croth with it, give it a Beth peak if you 


//A7iV TIMES. 


576 

can, and think you might do wurth. People must be amuthed, 
Thquire, somehow,’’ continued Sleary, rendered more pursy, 
than ever, by so much talking ; “ they can’t be alwayth a 
working, nor yet they can’t be alwayth a learning. Make the 
betht of uth ; not the wurtht. I’ve got my living out of the 
horthe-riding all my life, I know ; but I conthider that I lay 
down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to you, 
Thquire, make the betht of uth : not the wurtht I ” 

The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went 
down stairs ; and the fixed eye of Philosophy — and its rolling 
eye, too — soon lost the three figures and the basket in the 
darkness of the street. 


CHAPTER VII. 

MRS. SPARSIT. 

Mr. Bounderby being a bachelor, an elderly lady pre- 
sided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain 
annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady’s name ; and she 
was a prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby’s 
car, as it rolled along in triumph with the Bully of humility 
inside. 

For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days, but 
was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in these 
very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of 
whom she was the relict, had been by the mother’s side what 
Mrs. Sparsit still called a Powler.” Strangers of limited 
information and dull apprehension were sometimes observed 
not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain 
whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a pro- 
fession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not 
need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, 
who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it 
was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves — which 
they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, 
blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolv- 
ent Debtors Court. 

The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother’s side a Powler, 


MRS. SPARSIT. 


577 


rnarried this lady, being by the father’s side a Scadgers. 
Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordi- 
nate appetite for butcher’s meat, and a mysterious leg which 
had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) con- 
trived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, 
and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported 
on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth 
mentioning. He inherited a. fair fortune from his uncle, but 
owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over im- 
mediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four 
(the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he 
did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated 
soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That 
bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at 
deadly feud with her only relative. Lady Scadgers ; and, 
partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, 
went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly 
days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and the dense black 
eyebrows which had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bound- 
erby’s tea as he took his breakfast. 

If Bounderby had been a conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a 
captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his state- 
processions, he could not have made a greater flour] ):,.with 
her than he habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boast- 
fulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it belonged to it 
to exalt Mrs. Sparsit’s. In the measure that he would not 
allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favor- 
able circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit’s juvenile 
career with every possible advantage, and showered wagon- 
loads of early roses all over that lady’s path. And yet, sir,” 
he would say, how does it turn out after all ? Why here 
she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she 
is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown ! ” 

Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that 
third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions 
with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasper- 
ating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own 
praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a 
moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough 
elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in 
quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to 
be Uie Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Chart a, John Bull, 
25 


HARD TIMES. 


578 

Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman’s house is 
his castle. Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put 
together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator 
of this kind brought into his peroration, 

“ Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, 

A breath can make them, as a breath has made,” 

—it was, for certain, more or less understood among the 
company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. 

“Mr. Bounderby,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “you are unusually 
slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning.” 

“ Why, ma’am,” he returned, “ I am thinking about Tom 
Gradgrind’s whim ; ” Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent 
manner of speaking — as if somebody were always endeavoring 
to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he 
wouldn’t ; “ Tom Gradgrind’s whim, ma’am, of bringing up 
the tumbling-girl.” 

“ The girl is now waiting to know,” said Mrs. Sparsit, 
“ whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the 
Lodge.” 

“ She must wait, ma’am,” answered Bounderby, “ till I 
know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here 
pres'dii^iy, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a 
day or two longer, of course she can, ma’am.” 

“ Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby.” 

“1 told him I would give her a shake-down here, last 
night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to 
let her have any association with Louisa.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Bounderby ? Very thoughtful of you ! ” 

Mrs. Sparsit’s Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expan- 
sion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she 
took a sip of tea. 

“ It’s tolerably clear to said Bounderby, “ that the 

little puss can get small good out of such companionship.” 

“ Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bound- 
erby } ” 

“ Yes, ma’am, I’m speaking of Louisa.” 

“Your observation being limited to Tittle puss,’ ” said 
Mrs. Sparsit, “ and there being two little girls in question, I 
did not know which might be indicated by that expression.” 

“ Louisa,” repeated Mr. Bounderby. “ Louisa, Louisa.” 

“ You are quite another father to Louisa, sir.” Mrs. 
Sparsit took a little more tea ; and, as she bent her agavii 


MRS. SPARSir. 


579 


contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as 
if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. 

If you had said I was another father to Tom — young 
Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind — you might have 
been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into 
my office. Going to have him under my wmg, ma’am.” 

Indeed Rather young for that, is he not, sir ? ” Mrs. 

^Sparsit’s ‘‘sir,” in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of 
ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, 
than honoring him. 

“I’m not going to take him at once ; he is to finish his 
educational cramming before then,” said Bounderby. “By 
the Lord Harry, he’ll have enough of it, first and last ! He’d 
open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learn- 
ing wy young maw was, at his time of life.” Which, by the bye, 
he probably did know, for he had heard of it* often enough. 
“ But it’s extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such 
subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, 
for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about 
tumblers. Why, what do you know about tumblers ? At the 
time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, 
would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to 
me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of 
the Italian Opera, ma’am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze 
of splendor, when I hadn’t a penny to buy a link to light you.” 

“ I certainly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity 
serenely mournful, “ was familiar with the Italian Opera at a 
very early age.” 

“ Egad, ma’am, so was I,” said Bounderby, “ — with the 
wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement of its Arcade 
used to make, I assure you. People like you, ma’am, ac- 
customed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have no idea 
how hard a paving-stone is, without trying it. No, no, it’s of 
no use my talking to you about tumblers. I should speak of 
foreign dances, and the West End of London, and May Fair, 
and lords and ladies and honorables.” 

“I trust, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resigna- 
tion, “ it is not necessary that you should do anything of that 
kind. I hope I have learnt how to accommodate myself to 
the changes of life. If I have acquired an interest in hearing 
of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough 
of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a gem 
eral sentiment.” 


TIMES,. 


586 

“ Well, ma^am,’^ said her patron, ‘‘ perhaps some people 
may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his own 
unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has 
gone through. But you must confess that you were born in 
the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma’am, you know you 
were born in the lap of luxury.” 

“I do not, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her 
head, “ deny it.” 

Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and 
stand with his back to the fire, looking at her j she was such 
an enhancement of his position. 

“And you were in crack society. Devilish high society,’^ 
he said, warming his legs. 

“ It is true, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affecta- 
tion of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no 
danger of jostling it. 

“You were in the tip-top fashion, and all the rest of it,” 
said Mr. Bounderby. 

“ Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social 
widowhood upon her. “ It is unquestionably true.” 

Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally 
embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. 
Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received 
the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a 
kiss. 

“ Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby ? ” asked Mr. Grad- 
grind. 

Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she 
curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Grad- 
grind, and also to Louisa ; but in her confusion unluckily 
omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous Bounder- 
by had the following remarks to make : 

“Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name of that lady 
by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as mistress of 
this house, and she is a highly connected lady. Consequent- 
ly, if ever you come again into any room in this house, you 
will make a short stay in it if you don’t behave towards that 
lady in your most respectful manner. Now, I don’t care a 
button what you do to because I don’t affect to be any- 
body. So far from having high connections I have no con- 
nections at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But 
towards that lady, I do care what you do ; and you shall do 
what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not come here.’^ 


MRS. SPARSIT. 581 

‘‘ I hope, Bounderby, ’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, in a concilia- 
tory voice, that this was merely an oversight.” 

‘‘ My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs. Sparsit,” said 
Bounderby, “ that this was merely an oversight. Very likely. 
However, as you are aware, ma’am, I don’t allow of even 
cwersights towards you.” 

“ You are very good indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, 
shaking her head with her State humility. “ It is not worth 
speaking of.” 

Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing herself 
with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of 
the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at 
him, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyes upon the 
ground, while he proceeded thus : 

^‘Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into my 
house ; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, to 
employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. 
I have explained to Miss Louisa — this is Miss Louisa — the 
miserable but natural end of your late career ; and you are to 
expressly understand that the whole of that subject is past, 
and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you 
begin your history.. You are, at present, ignorant, I know.” 

‘‘Yes, sir, very,” she answered, curtseying. 

“I shall have the satisfaction of causing you to be strictly 
educated ; and you will be a living proof to all who come into 
communication with you, of the advantages of the training you 
will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have 
been in the habit now of reading to your father, and those 
people I found you among, I dare say ? ” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and dropping 
his voice. 

“ Only to father and Merry legs, sir. At least I mean to 
father, when Merrylegs was always there.” 

“ Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,” said Mr. Gradgrind, with 
a passing frown. “ I don’t ask about him. I understand you 
to have been in the habit of reading to your father ? ” 

“ O yes, sir, thousands of times. They were the happiest 
— O, of all the happy times we had together, sir ! ” 

It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that Louisa 
looked at her. 

“And what,” asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a still lower voice^, 
“did you read to your father, Jupe ? ” 


TIMES. 


582 

“ About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunch' 

back, and the Genies,’’ she sobbed out ; “ and about ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind, that is enough. Never 
breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more. 
Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall observe 
it with interest.” 

“ Well,” returned Mr. Bounderby, “ I have given you my 
opinion already, and I shouldn’t do as you do. But, very 
well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, very well ! ” 

So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter took Cecilia Jupe off 
with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never 
spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went 
about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her 
eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that retreat, all the 
evening. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

NEVER WONDER. 

Let us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the 
tune. 

When she was half a dozen years younger, Louisa had 
been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother one 
day, by saying “ Tom, I wonder ” — upon which Mr. Grad- 
grind, who was the person overhearing, stepped forth into the 
light and said, Louisa, never wonder ! ” 

Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mystery 
of educating the reason without stooping to the cultivation of 
the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of 
addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle every- 
thing somehow, and never wonder. Bring to me, says 
M^Choakumchild, yonder baby just able to walk, and I will 
engage that it shall never wonder. 

Now, besides very many babies just able to walk, there 
happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of 
babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite 
world, twenty, thirty, forty fifty years or more. These por- 
tentous infants being alarming creatures to stalk about in 
any human society, the eighteen denominations incessantly 


NEVER WONDER. 


583 

scratched one another’s faces and pulled one another’s hair 
by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improve- 
ment — which they never did ; a surprising circumstance, 
when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is consid- 
ered. Still, although they differed in every other particular, 
conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they 
were pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants 
were never to wonder. Body number one, said they must 
take everything on trust. Body number two, said they must 
take everything on political economy. Body number three, 
wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good 
grown-up baby invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the 
bad grown-up baby invariably got transported. Body number 
four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when it was very 
melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of conceal- 
ing pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these 
babies to be smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies 
agreed that they were never to wonder. 

There was a library in Coketown, to which general access 
was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind about 
what the people read in this library : a point whereon little 
rivers of tabular statements periodically flowed into the howl- 
ing ocean of tabular statements, which no diver ever got to any 
depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circum- 
stance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers per- 
sisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, 
human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, tri- 
umphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives 
and deaths of common men and women ! They sometimes, 
after fifteen hours’ work sat down to read mere fables about 
men and women, more or less like themselves, and about 
children, more less like their own. They took De Foe to 
their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the 
whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. 
Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at 
this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it 
yielded this unaccountable product. 

“ I am sick of my life. Loo. I hate it altogether, and I 
hate everybody except you,” said the unnatural young Thomas 
Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. 

You don’t hate Sissy, Tom ? ” 

“ I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates 
me,” said Tom moodily. 


HARD TIMES. 


5^4 

‘‘ No, she does not, Tom, I am sure ! 

“ She must,” said Tom. “ She must just hate and detest 
the whole set-out of us. They’ll bother her head off, I think, 
before they have done with her. Already she’s getting as 
pale as wax, and as heavy as — I am.” 

Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride 
of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his 
sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by 
the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright 
sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. 

“ As to me,” said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of 
ways with his sulky hands, “I am a Donkey, that’s what 1 
am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I 
get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like 
one.” 

‘‘Not me, I hope, Tom ? ” 

“ No, Loo ; I wouldn’t hurt you. I made an exception of 
you at first. I don’t know what this — ^jolly old — ^Jaundiced 
Jail,” Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary 
and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to re- 
lieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this 
one, “ would be without you.” 

“ Indeed, Tom ? Do you really and truly say so ? ” 

“ Why, of course I do. What’s the use of talking about 
it ! ” returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if 
to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. 

“ Because, Tom,” said his sister, after silently watching 
the sparks awhile, “ as I get older, and nearer growing up, I 
often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for 
me that I can’t reconcile you to home better than I am able 
to do. I don’t know what other girls know. I can’t play to 
you, or sing to you. I can’t talk to you so as to enlighten 
your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any 
amusing hooks that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you 
to talk about when you are tired.” 

“ Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you are in that re- 
spect ; and I am a Mule too, which you’re not. If father was 
determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a 
Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I 
am,” said Tom, desperately. 

“ It’s a great pity,” said Louisa, after another pause, and 
speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner ; “ it’s a great 
pity, Tom. It’s very unfortunate for both of us.” 


NEVER WONDER. 


585 

“Oh ! You/’ said Tom; “you are a girl, Loo, and a girl 
comes out of it better than a boy does. I don’t miss any- 
thing in you. You are the only pleasure I have — you can 
brighten even this place — and you can always lead me as you 
like.” 

“ You are a dear brother, Tom ; and while you think I can 
do such things, I don’t so much mind knowing better. Though 
I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it.” She came 
and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. 

“ I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much 
about,” said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, “and all the 
Figures, and all the people who found them out ; and I wish I 
could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and 
blow them all up together ! Flowever, when I go to live with 
old Bounderby, I’ll have my revenge.” 

“ Your revenge, Tom ? ” 

“ I mean. I’ll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see 
something, and hear something. I’ll recompense myself for 
the way in which I have been brought up.” 

“But don’t disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. 
Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, 
and not half so kind.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Tom laughing; “ I don’t mind that. I shall 
very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby ! 

Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of 
the high presses in the room were all blended together on the 
wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were over- 
hung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination — if Such 
treason could have been there — might have made it out to be 
the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association 
with their future. 

“ What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, 
Tom ? Is it a secret ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Tom, “ if k is a secret, it’s not far off. It’s 
you. You are his little pet, you are his favorite; he’ll do 
anything for you. When he says to me what I don’t like, I 
shall say to him, ‘ My sister Loo will be hurt and disap- 
pointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was 
sure you would be easier with me than this.’ That’ll bring him 
about, or nothing will.” 

After waiting for some answering remark, and getting 
none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined 
himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and 


TIMES. 


$86 

rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked 
up, and asked : 

Have you gone to sleep. Loo ? 

‘‘ No, Tom. I am looking at the fire.” 

“ You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could 
find,” said Tom. “ Another of the advantages, I suppose, of 
being a girl.” 

‘‘ Tom,” inquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, 
as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it were 
not quite plainly written there, do you look forward with 
any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby’s ? ” 

Why, there’s one thing to be said of it,” returned Tom, 
pushing his chair from him, and standing up ; it will be 
getting away from home.” 

“ There is one thing to be said of it,” Louisa repeated in 
her former curious tone ; it will be getting away from home. 
Yes.” 

‘‘ Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave 
you. Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, 
whether I like it or not ; and I had better go where I can 
take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I 
should lose it altogether. Don’t you see ? ” 

“Yes, Tom.’^ 

The answer was so long in coming, though there was no 
indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her 
chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from 
her point of view, and see what he could make of it. 

“ Except that it is a fire,” said Tom, “ it looks to me as 
stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see 
in it ? Not a circus? ” 

“ I don’t see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since 
I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you 
and me, grown up.” 

“ Wondering again ! ” said Tom. 

“ I have such unmanageable thoughts,” returned his sister, 
“ that they will wonder.” 

“ Then I beg of you, Louisa,” said Mrs. Gradgrind who 
had opened the door without being heard, “ to do nothing of 
that description, for goodness’ sake you inconsiderate girl, or 
I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And 
Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually 
wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and 
whose education has cost what your’s has, should be found 


S/SSV'S PROGRESS. 587 

encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father 
has expressly said that she is not to do it/’ 

Louisa denied Tom’s participation in the offence ; but her 
mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, “ Louisa, 
don’t tell me, in my state of health ; for unless you had been 
encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you 
could have done it.” 

“ I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at 
the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and 
dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would 
be, and how little I could hope to do in it .” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost en- 
ergetic. “ Nonsense ! Don’t stand there and tell me such 
stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it 
was ever to reach your father’s ears I should never hear the 
last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you 1 
After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments 
you have seen 1 After I have heard you myself, when the 
whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your 
master about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, 
and I may say every kind of ation that could drive a poor 
invalid distracted, to hear you talking in this absurd way 
about sparks and ashes 1 I wish,” whimpered Mrs. Grad- 
grind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point be- 
fore succumbing under these mere shadows of facts, “ yes, I 
really do wish that I had never had a family, and then you 
would have known what it was to do without me 1 ” 


CHAPTER IX. 
sissy’s progress. 

Sissy Jupe had not an easy time of it, between Mr. 
M’Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without 
strong impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run 
away. It hailed facts all day long so very hard, and life in 
general was opened to her as such a closely ruled ciphering- 
book, that assuredly she would have run away, but for only 
one restraint. 


588 


TIMES 


It is lamentable to think of ; but this restraint was the re- 
sult of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in defiance 
of all calculation, and went dead against any table of prob- 
abilities that any Actuary would have drawn up from the 
premises. The girl believed that her father had not deserted 
her j she lived in the hope that he would come back, and in 
the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining 
where she was. 

The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to this 
consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a 
sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural 
vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to 
be done? M^Choakumchild reported that she had a very 
dense head for figures ; that, once possessed with a general 
idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest 
in its exact measurements ; that she was extremely slow in 
the acquisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident happened 
to be connected therewith ; that she would burst into tears 
on being required (by the mental process) immediately to 
name the cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at 
fourteen-pence half-penny \ that she was as low down, in the 
school, as low could be ; that after eight weeks of induction 
into the elements of Political Economy, she had only yester- 
day been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning 
to the question, “ What is the first principle of this science 
the absurd answer, To do unto others as I would that they 
should do unto me.’’ 

Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head, that all this 
was very bad ; that it showed the necessity of infinite grind- 
ing at the mill of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue 
book, report, and tabular statements A to Z ; and that Jupe 
“ must be kept to it.” So Jupe was kept to it, and became 
low-spirited, but no wiser. 

It would be a fine thing to be you. Miss Louisa ! ” she 
said, one night, when Louisa had endeavored to make her 
perplexities for next day something clearer to her. 

‘‘ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I should know so much. Miss Louisa. All that is dif- 
ficult to me now, would be so edsy then.” 

‘‘ You might not be the better for it. Sissy.” 

Sissy submitted after a little hesitation. “ I should not be 
the worse. Miss Louisa.” To which Miss Louisa answered, 
‘‘ I don’t know that.” 


s/ssy's .PJiOfJKESS. 


589 

I'here had been so little communication between these two 
— both because life at Stone Lodge went monotonously round 
like a piece of machinery which discouraged human interfer- 
ence, and because of the prohibition relative to Sissy’s past 
career — that they were still almost strangers. Sissy, with her 
dark eyes wonderingly directed to Louisa’s face, was uncer- 
tain whether to say more or to remain silent. 

“You are more useful to my mother, and more pleasant 
to her than I can ever be,” Louisa resumed. “ You are pleas- 
anter to yourself, than I am to myselt” 

“ But, if you please, Miss Louisa,” Sissy pleaded, “ I am 
— O so stupid ! ” 

Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, told her she 
would be wiser by and by. 

“ You don’t know,” said Sissy, half crying, “ what a 
stupid girl I am. All through the school hours I make mis- 
takes. Mr. and Mrs. M‘Choakumchild call me up, over and 
over again, regularly to make mistakes. I can’t help them. 
They seem to come natural to me.” 

“ Mr. and Mrs. M’Choakumchild never make any mistakes 
themselves, I suppose. Sissy ? ” 

“O no ! ” she eagerly returned. “ They know everything.” 

“Tell me some of your mistakes.” 

“ I am almost ashamed,” said Sissy, with reluctance. “ But 
to-day, for instance, Mr. M^Choakumchild was explaining 
to us about Natural Prosperity.” 

“National, I think it must have been,” observed Louisa. 

“ Yes, it was. — But isn’t it the same ? ” she timidly asked. 

“ You had better say. National, as he said so,” returned 
Louisa, with her dry reserve. 

“ National prosperity. And he said. Now, this schoolroom 
is a Nation. And in this nation, there are fifty millions of 
money. Isn’t this a prosperous nation ? Girl number twenty, 
isn’t this a prosperous nation, and a’n’t you in a thriving state ? ” 

“ What did you say ? ” asked Louisa. 

“ Miss Louisa, I said I didn’t know. I thought I couldn’t 
know whether it was a prosperous nation or not, and whether 
I was in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who had got 
the money, and whether any of it was mine. But that had 
nothing to do with it. It was not in the figures at all,” said 
Sissy, wiping her eyes. 

“That was a great mistake of yours,” observed Louisa. 

‘Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. Then Mr, 


S90 


HARD TIMES. 


M‘Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he said, 
This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a 
million of inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to 
death in the streets, in the course of a year. What is your 
remark on that proportion } And my remark was — for I 
couldn't think of a better one — that I thought it must be just 
as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others 
were a million, or a million million. And that was wrong, 
too/^ 

Of course it was.’’ 

Then Mr. M’Choakumchild said he would try me once 
more. And he said. Here are the stutterings ” 

‘‘ Statistics,” said Louisa. 

“ Yes, Miss Louisa — they always remind me of stutterings, 
and that’s another of my mistakes — of accidents upon the 
sea. And I find (Mr. M‘Choakumchild said) that in a given 
time a hundred thousand persons went to sea on long voyages, 
and only five hundred of them were drowned or burnt to death. 
What is the percentage ? And I said. Miss ; ” here Sissy 
fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme contrition to her 
greatest error, I said it was nothing.” 

Nothing, Sissy ? ” 

“Nothing, Miss — to the relations and friends of the peo- 
ple who were killed. I shall never learn,” said Sissy. “And 
the worst of all is, that although my poor father wished me 
so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, be- 
cause he wished me to, I am afraid I don’t like it.” 

Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it 
drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to glance 
at her face. Then she asked : 

“ Did your father know so much himself, that he wished 
you to be well taught too. Sissy ? ” 

Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly showed her 
sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, that Louisa 
added “No one hears us ; and if any one did, I am sure no 
harm could be found in such an innocent question.” 

“ No, Miss Louisa,” answered Sissy, upon this encourage- 
ment, shaking her head ; “ father knows very little indeed. 
It’s as much as he can do to write ; and it’s more than people 
in general can do to read his writing. Though it’s plain to 
meP 

“ Your mother ! ” 

“ Father says she was quite a scholar, She died when I 


S/SSV'S FROGI^ESS, 


591 

was born. She was ; ’’ Sissy made the terrible communica- 
tion nervously ] ‘‘she was a dancer/’ 

“ Did your father love her ? ” Louisa asked these questions 
with a strong, wild, wondering interest peculiar to her ; an 
interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in 
solitary places. 

“ O yes ! as dearly as he loves me. Father loved me, first, 
for her sake. He carried me about with him w^hen I was 
quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time.” 

“Yet he leaves you now. Sissy 

“ Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I do ; 
nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my good — 
he never would have left me for his own — F know he was al- 
most broken-hearted with the trial. He will not be happy for 
a single minute, till he comes back.” 

“Tell me more about him,” said Louisa, “ I will never ask 
you again. Where did you live ? ” 

“We travelled about the country, and had no fixed place 
to live in. Father’s a ; ” Sissy whispered the awful word, “ a 
clown.” 

“To make the people laugh ” said Louisa, with a nod of 
intelligence. 

“Yes. But they wouldn’t laugh sometimes, and then 
father cried. Lately, they very often wouldn’t laugh, and he 
used to come home despairing. Father’s not like most. 
Those who didn’t know him as well as I do, and didn’t love 
him as dearly as I do, might believe him not quite right. 
Sometimes they play tricks upon him j but they never knew 
how he felt them, and shrunk up when he was alone with me. 
He was far, far timider than they thought ! ” 

“ And you were his comfort through everything? ” 

She nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. “ I 
hope so, and father said I was. It was because he grew so 
scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to be a poor, 
weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used to be his words), 
that he wanted me so much to know a ^reat deal, and be dif- 
ferent from him. I used to read to him to cheer his courage, 
and he was very fond of that. They were wrong books — I 
am never to speak of them here — but we didn’t know there 
was any harm in them.” 

“ And he liked them ? ” said Louisa, with a searching gaze 
on Sissy all this time. 

“ O very much 1 They kept him, many times, from what 


592 


HARD TIMES, 


did him real harm. And often and often of a night, he usee} 
to forget all his troubles in wondering whether the Sultan 
would let the lady go on with the story, or would have her 
head cut off before it was finished.’’ 

And your father was always kind } To the last.^ ” asked 
Louisa ; contravening the great principle, and wondering very 
much. 

“ Always, always ! ” returned Sissy, clasping her hands. 
“ Kinder and kinder than I can tell. He was angry only one 
night, and that was not to me, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs ; ” 
she whispered the awful fact ; ‘Ts his performing dog.” 

‘‘Why was he angry with the dog? ” Louisa demanded. 

“ Father, soon after they came home from performing, told 
Merrylegs to jump up on the backs of the two chairs and 
stand across them — which is one of his tricks. He looked at 
father, and didn’t do it at once. Everything of father’s had 
gone wrong that night, and he hadn’t pleased the public at 
all. He cried out that the very dog knew he was failing, and 
had no compassion on him. Then he beat the dog, and I was 
frightened, and said, ‘ Father, father ! Pray don’t hurt the 
creature who is so fond of you ! O Heaven forgive you, 
father, stop ! ’ And he stopped, and the dog was bloody, and 
father lay down crying on the floor with the dog in his arms, 
and the dog licked his face.” 

Louisa saw that she was sobbing ; and going to her, kissed 
her, took her hand, and sat down beside her. 

“ Finish by telling me how your father left you. Sissy. 
Now that I have asked you so much, tell me the end. The 
blame, if there is any blame, is mine, not yours.” 

“ Dear Miss Louisa,” said Sissy, covering her eyes, and 
sobbing yet ; “ I came home from the school that afternoon, 
and found poor father just come home too, from the booth. 
And he sat rocking himself over the fire, as if he was in pain. 
And I said, “ Have you hurt yourself, father ? ’ (as he did 
sometimes, like they all did), and he said, ‘ A little, my dar- 
ling.’ And when I came to stoop down and look up at his 
face, I saw that he was crying. The more I spoke to him, the 
more he hid his face ; and at first he shook all over, and said 
nothing but ‘ My darling ;’ and ‘ My love ! ’ ” 

Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at the two with a 
coolness not particularly savoring of interest in anything but 
himself, and not much of that at present. 

“ I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom,” observed his 


SISSY'S PROGRESS, 


593 

sister. ‘‘ You have no occasion to go away ; but don’t inter- 
rupt us for a moment, Tom clear.” 

“ Oh ! very well ! ” returned Tom. Only father has 
brought old Bounderby home, and I want you to come into 
the drawing-room. Because if you come, there’s a good 
chance of old Bounderby’s asking me to dinner ; and if you 
don’t, there’s none.” 

I’ll come directly.” 

“ I’ll wait for you,” said Tom, make sure.” 

Sissy resumed in a lower voice. “At last poor father said 
that he had given no satisfaction again, and never did give 
any satisfaction now, and that he was a shame and disgrace, 
and I should have done better without him all along. I saicl 
all the affectionate things to him that came into my heart, and 
presently he was quiet and I sat down by him, and told him 
all about the school and everything that had been said and 
done there. When I had no more left to tell, he put his arms 
round my neck, and kissed me a great many times. Then he 
asked me to fetch some of the stuff he used, for the little hurt 
he had had, and to get it at the best place, which was at the 
other end of town from there; and then, after kissing me 
again, he let me go. When I had gone down stairs, I turned 
back that I might be a little bit more company to him yet, and 
looked in at the door, and said, ‘ Father dear, shall I take 
Merrylegs ? ’ Father shook his head and said, ‘ No, Sissy, no ; 
take nothing that’s known to be mine, my darling ; ’ and I left 
him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must have come 
upon him, poor, poor father ! of going away to try something 
for my sake ; for when I carne back, he was gone.” 

“ I say ! Look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo ! ” Tom 
remonstrated. 

“ There’s no more to tell. Miss Louisa. I keep the nine 
oils ready for him, and I know he will come back. Every 
letter that I see in Mr. Gradgrind’s hand takes my breath 
away and blinds my eyes, for I think it comes from father, or 
from Mr. Sleary about father. Mr. Sleary promised to write 
as soon as ever father should be heard of, and I trust to him 
to keep his word.” 

. “ Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo ! ” said Tom, with 
an impatient whistle. “ He’ll be off if you don’t look 
sharp ! ” 

After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curtsey to Mr. Grad- 
grind in the presence of his family, and said in a faltering 


594 


HARD TIMES, 


way, I beg your pardon, sir, for being troublesome — but — 
have you had any letter yet about me ? Louisa would sus- 
pend the occupation of the moment,. whatever it was, and look 
for the reply as earnestly as Sissy did. And when Mr. Grad- 
grind regularly answered, ‘‘ No, Jupe, nothing of the sort,’’ the 
trembling of Sissy’s lip would be repeated in Louisa’s face, 
and her eyes would follow Sissy with compassion to the door. 
Mr. Gradgrind usually improved these occasions by remark- 
ing, when she was gone, that if Jupe had been properly trained 
from an early age she would have demonstrated to herself on 
sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. 
Yet it did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) 
as if fantastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact. 

This observation must be limited exclusively to his. 
daughter. As to Tom, he was becoming that not unprece- 
dented triumph of calculation which is usually at work. o\\ 
number one. As to Mrs. Gradgrind, if she said anything on 
the subject j she would come a little way out of her wrappers, 
like a feminine dormouse, and say : 

Good gracious bless me, how my poor head is vexed and 
worried by that girl Jupe’s so perseveringly asking, over and 
over again, about her tiresome letters ! Upon my word and 
honor I seem to be fated, and destined, and ordained, to live 
in the midst of things that I am never to hear the last of. It 
really is a most extraordinary circumstance that it appears 
as if I never was to hear the last of anything ! 

At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind’s eye would fall upon 
her ; and under the influence of that wintry piece of fact she 
would become torpid again. 


CHAPTER X. 

STEPHEN BLACKPOOL. 

I ENTERTAIN a Weak idea that the English people are ^ as 
hard-worked as any people upon whom the sun shines. I 
acknowledge to this ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why 
1 would give them a little more play. 

In the hardest working part of Coketown ; in the inner- 


STEPHEN BLACKPOOL. 


595 


most fortifications of that ugly citadel, where Nature was as 
strongly bricked out as killing airs and gases were bricked in ,• 
at the heart of the labyrinth of narrow courts upon courts, and 
close streets upon streets, which had come into existence 
piecemeal, every piece in a violent hurry for some one man’s 
purpose, and the whole an unnatural family, shouldering, and 
trampling, and pressing one another to death ; in the last close 
nook of this great exhausted receiver, where the chimneys, for 
want of air to make a draught, were built in an immense var- 
iety of stunted and crooked shapes, as though every house 
put out a sign of the kind of people who might be expected to 
be born in it; among the multitude of Coketown, generically 
called “the Hands,” — a race who would have found more 
favor with some people, if Providence had seen fit to make 
them only hands, or, like the lower creatures of the sea-shore, 
only hands and stomachs — lived a certain Stephen Blackpool, 
forty years of age. 

Stephen looked older, but he had had a hard Jj/.e. It is 
said that every life has its roses and thorns ; there seemed, 
however, to have been a misadventure or mistake in Stephen’s 
case, whereby somebody else had become possessed of his 
roses, and he had become possessed of the same somebody 
else’s thorns in addition to his own* He had known, to use his 
words, a peck of trouble. He was usually called Old Stephen, 
in a kind of rough homage to the fact. 

A rather stooping man, with a knitted brow, a pondering 
expression of face, and a hard-looking head sufficiently capa- 
cious, on which his iron-gray hair lay long and thin. Old 
Stephen might have passed for a particularly intelligent man 
in his condition. Yet he was not. He took no place among 
those remarkable “ Hands,” who, piecing together their broken 
intervals of leisure through many years, had mastered difficult 
sciences, and acquired a knowledge of most unlikely things. 
He held no station among the Hands who could make speeches 
and carry on debates. Thousands of his compeers could talk 
much better than he, at any time. He was a good power-loom 
weaver, and a man of perfect integrity. What more he was, 
or what else he had in him, if anything, let him show for him- 
self. 

The lights in the great factories, which looked, when they 
were illuminated, like Fairy palaces — or the travellers by ex- 
press-train said so — were all extinguished ; and the bells had 
rung for knocking off for the night, and had ceased again ; 


HARD TIMES. 


596 

and the Hands, men and women, boy and girl, were clattering 
home. Old Stephen was standing in the street, with the old 
sensation upon him which the stoppage of the machinery 
always produced — the sensation of its having worked and 
stopped in his own head. 

‘‘Yet I don’t see Rachael, still! ” said he. 

It was a wet night, and many groups of young women 
passed him, with their shawls drawn over their bare heads 
and held close under their chins to keep the rain out. He 
knew Rachael well, for a glance at any one of these groups 
was sufficient to show him that she v/as not there. At last, 
there were no more to come ; and then he turned away, say- 
ing in a tone of disappointment, “ Why, then, I ha’ missed 
her I ” 

But, he had not gone the length of three streets, when he 
saw another of the shawled figures in advance of him, at which 
he looked so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indistinctly 
reflectecl^^on the wet pavement — if he could have seen it with- 
out the figure itself moving along from lamp to lamp, bright- 
ening and fading as it went — would have been enough to tell 
him who was there. Making his pace at once much quicker 
and much softer, he darted on until he was Very near this 
figure, then fell into his former walk, and called “ Rachael 1 

She turned, being then in the brightness of a lamp ; and 
raising her hood a little, showed a quiet oval face, dark and 
rather delicate, irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, and 
further set off by the perfect order of her shining black hair. 
It was not a face in its first bloom ; she was a woman five ai)d 
thirty years of age. 

“ Ah, lad I ’Tis thou ? ” When she had said this, with a 
smile which would have been quite expressed, though nothing 
of her had been seen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced her 
hood again, and they went on together. 

“ I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael ? 

“ No.” 

“ Early t’ night, lass ? ” 

“ ’Times I’m a little early, Stephen I ’times a little late. 
I’m never to be counted on, going home.” 

“ Nor going t’other way, neither, ’t seems to me, Rachael ? ” 

“ No, Stephen.” 

He looked at her with some disappointment in his face, 
but with a respectful and patient conviction that she must be. 
right in whatever she did. The expression was not lost upon 


STEPHEN BLACKPOOL. 


597 

her ; she laid her hand lightly on his arm a moment as if to 
thank him for it. 

‘‘We are such true friends, lad, and such old friends, and 
getitng to be such old folks, now.’’ 

“ No, Rachael, thou’rt as young as ever thou wast.” 

“One of us would be puzzled how to get old, Stephen, 
without t’ other getting so too, both being alive,” she an- 
swered, laughing j “ but, any ways, we’re such old friends, 
that t’ hide a word of honest truth fro’ one another would be 
a sin and a pity. ’Tis better not to walk too much together. 
’Times, yes ! ’Twould be hard, indeed, if ’twas not to be at 
all,” she said, with a cheerfulness she sought to communicate 
to him. 

“ ’Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.” 

“ Try to think not ; and ’twill seem better.’' 

“ I’ve tried a long time, and ’ta’nt got better. But thou’rt 
right ; ’tmight mak fok talk, even of thee. Thou hast been 
that to me, Rachael, through so many year : thou hast done 
me so much good, and heartened of me in that cheering way, 
that thy word is a law to me. Ah lass, and a bright good 
law ! Better than some real ones.” 

“ Never fret about them, Stephen,” she answered quickly, 
and not without an anxious glance at his face. “ Let the laws 
be.” 

“ Yes,” he said, with a slow nod or two. “ Let everything 
be. Let all sorts alone. ’Tis a muddle, and that’s aw.” 

“ Always a muddle ? ” said Rachael, with another gentle 
touch upon his arm, as if to recall him out of the thoughtful- 
ness, in which he was biting the long ends of his loose neck- 
erchief as he walked along. The touch had its instantaneous 
effect. He let them fall, turned a smiling face upon her, and 
said, as he broke into a good-humored laugh, “ Ay, Rachael, 
lass, awlus a muddle. That’s where I stick. I come to the 
muddle many times and agen, and I never get beyond it.” 

They had walked some distance, and were near their own 
homes. The woman’s was the first reached. It was in one 
of the many small streets for which the favorite undertaker 
(who turned a handsome sum out of the one poor ghastly 
pomp of the neighborhood) kept a black ladder, in order that 
those who had done their daily groping up and down the nar- 
row stairs might slide out of this working world by the win- 
dows. She stopped at the corner, and putting her hand in 
his, wished him good-night. 


/fAXV TIMES. 


598 

Good-night, dear lass ; good-night ! ” 

She went, with her neat figure and her sober womanly step, 
down the dark street, and he stood looking after her until she 
turned into one of the small houses. There was not a flutter 
of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but had its interest in this man’s 
eyes ; not a tone of her voice but had its echo in his inner- 
most heart. 

When she was lost to his view, he pursued his homeward 
way, glancing up sometimes at the sky, where, the clouds 
were sailing fast and wildly. But, they were broken now, and 
the rain had ceased, and the moon shone, — looking down the 
high chimneys of Coketown on the deep furnaces below, and 
casting Titanic shadows of the steam engines at rest, upon 
the walls where they were lodged. The man seemed to have 
brightened with the night, as he went on. 

His home, in such another street as the first, saving that 
it was narrow, was over a little shop. How it came to pass 
that any people found it worth their while to sell or buy the 
wretched little toys, mixed up in its window with cheap news- 
papers and pork (there was a leg to be raffled for to-morrow- 
night), matters not here. He took his end of the candle from 
a shelf, lighted it at another end of candle on tli« counter, 
without disturbing the mistress of the shop who was asleep in 
her little room, and went up stairs into his lodging. 

It was a room, not unacquainted with the black ladder 
under various tenants ; but as neat, at present, as such a 
room could be. A few books and writings were on an old 
bureau in a corner, the furniture was decent and sufficient, 
and, though the atmosphere was tainted, the room was clean. 

Going to the hearth to set the candle down upon a round 
three-legged table standing there, he stumbled against some- 
thing. As he recoiled, looking down at it, it raised itself up 
into the form of a woman in a sitting attitude. 

Heaven’s mercy, woman ! ” he cried, falling farther off 
from the figure. ‘‘ Hast thou come back again 1 ” 

Such a woman ! A disabled, drunken creature, barely 
able to preserve her sitting posture by steadying herself with 
one begrimed hand on the floor, while the other was so pur- 
poseless in trying to push away her tangled hair from her face, 
that it only blinded her the more with the dirt upon it. A 
creature so foul to look at, in her tatters, stains and splashes, 
but so much fouler than that in her moral infamy, that it was 
a shameful thing even to see her. 


NO WA Y OUT. 


599 


After an impatient oath or two, and some stupid clawing of 
herself with the hand not necessaiy to her support, she got 
her hair away from her eyes sufficiently to obtain a sight of 
him. Then she sat swaying her body to and fro, and making 
gestures with her unnerved arm, which seemed intended as 
the accompaniment to a tit of laughter, though her face was 
stolid and drowsy. 

“ Eigh lad ? What, yo'x there ? ’’ Some hoarse sounds 
meant for this, came mockingly out of her at last \ and her 
head dropped forward on her breast. 

“ Back agen ’’ she screeched, after some minutes, as if he 
had that moment said it. “Yes! And back agen. Back 
agen ever and ever so often. Back ? Yes, back. Why not ? ” 

Roused by the unmeaning violence with which she cried it 
out, she scrambled up, and stood supporting herself with her 
shoulders against the wall ; dangling in one hand by the 
string, a dunghill-fragment of a bonnet, and tiydng to look 
scornfully at him. 

‘‘ I’ll sell thee oif again^ and I’ll sell thee off again, and 
I’ll sell thee off a score of times ! ” she cried, with something 
between a furious menace and an effort at a defiant dance. 
‘‘Come awa ’ from th’bed!” He was sitting on the side 
of it, with his face hidden in his hands. “ Come awa ’ from ’t. 
’Tis mine, and I’ve a right to ’t ! ” 

As she staggered to it, he avoided her with a shudder, and 
passed — his face still hidden — to the opposite end of the room. 
She threw herself upon the bed heavily, and soon was snoring 
hard. He sunk into a chair, and moved but once all that 
night. It was to throw a covering over her ; as if his hands 
were not enough to hide her, even in the darkness. 


CHAPTER XL 

NO WAY OUT. 

The Fairy palaces burst into illumination, before pale morn- 
ing showed the monstrous serpents of smoke trailing them- 
selves over Coketown. A clattering of clogs upon the pave- 
ment ] a rapid ringing of bells ; and all the melancholy mad 


6oo 


TIMES. 


elephants, polished and oiled up for the day’s monotony, were 
at their heavy exercise again. 

Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, and steady. 
A special contrast, as every man was in the forest of looms 
where Stephen worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing 
piece of mechanism at which he labored. Never fear, good 
people of- an anxious turn of mind, that Art will consign 
Nature to oblivion. Set anywhere, side by side, the work of 
God and the work of man ; and the former, even though it be a 
troop of Hands of very small account, will gain in dignity 
from the comparison. 

So many hundred Hands in this Mill ; so many hundred 
horse Steam Power. It is known, to the force of a single 
pound weight, what the engine will do ; but, not all the calcu- 
lators of the National Debt can tell me the capacity for good 
or evil, for love or hatred, for patriotism or discontent, for the 
decomposition of virtue into vice, or the reverse, at any single 
moment in the soul of one of these its quiet servants, with the 
composed faces and the regulated actions. There is no 
mystery in it ; there is an unfathomable mystery in the 
meanest of them, for ever. Supposing we were to reserve 
our arithmetic for material objects and to govern these awful 
unknown quantities by other means ! 

The day grew strong, and showed itself outside, even 
against the flaming lights within. The lights were turned out, 
and the work went on. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents, 
submissive to the curse of all that tribe, trailed themselves 
upon the earth. In the waste-yard outside, the steam from 
the escape pipe, the litter of barrels and old iron, the shining 
heaps of coals, the ashes everywhere, were shrouded in a veil 
of mist and rain. 

The work went on, until the noon-bell rang. More chat- 
tering upon the pavements. The looms, and wheels, and 
Hands all out of gear for an hour. 

Stephen came out of the hot mill into the damp wind and 
cold wet streets, haggard and worn. He turned from his own 
class and his own quarter, taking nothing but a little bread as 
he walked along, towards the hill on which his principal 
employer lived, in a red house with black outside shutters, 
green inside blinds, a black street door, up two white steps, 
Bounderby (in letters very like himself) upon a brazen plate, 
and a round brazen door-handle underneath it, like a brazen 
full-stop. 


NO WA Y OUT. 


6oi 


Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephen had ex- 
pected. Would his servant say that one of the Hands begged 
leave to speak to him ? Message in return, requiring name 
of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool. There was nothing 
troublesome against Stephen Blackpool ; yes, he might come in. 

Stephen Blackpool in the parlor. Mr. Bounderby (whom 
he just knew by sight), at lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. 
Sparsit netting at the fire-side, in a side-saddle attitude, with 
one foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a part, at once of Mrs. 
Sparsit’s dignity and service, not to lunch. She supervised 
the meal officially, but implied that in her own stately person 
she considered lunch a weakness. 

‘^Now, Stephen,” said Mr. Bounderby, “what’s the matter 
with you ? ” 

Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one — these Hands 
will never do that ! Lord bless you, sir, you’ll never catch them 
at that, if they have been with you twenty years ! — and, as a 
complimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked his neckerchief 
ends into his waistcoat. 

“ Now, you know,” said Mr. Bounderby, taking some 
sherry, “ we have never had any difficulty with you, and you 
have never been one of the unreasonable ones. You don’t, 
expect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtle 
soup and venison, with a gold spoon, as a good many of ’em 
do ! ” Mr. Bounderby always represented this to be the sole, 
immediate, and direct object of any Hand who was not en- 
tirely satisfied; “and therefore I know already that you have not 
come here to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am cer- 
tain of that, beforehand.” 

“ No, sir, sure I ha’ not coom for nowt o’ th’ kind.” 

Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwithstand- 
ing his previous strong conviction. “Very well,” he returned. 
“You’re a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, let 
me hear what it’s all about. As it’s not that, let me hear 
what it is. What have you got to say 1 Out with it, lad ! ” 

Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit. “ I 
can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it,” said that self-sacrifi- 
cing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup. 

Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding a mouthful of 
chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his 
left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his 
mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen : 

“Now you know, this good lady is a born lady, a high 
26 


6o2 


//A/?/) TIMES. 


lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house 
for me, that she hasn’t been very high up the tree — ah, up at 
the top of the tree ! Now, if you have got anything to say that 
can’t be said before a born lady, this lady will leave the room. 
If what you have got to say ca7i be said before a born lady, 
this lady will stay where she is.” 

Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten for a born 
lady to year, sin’ I were born mysen’,” was the reply, accom- 
panied with a slight flush. 

‘‘Very well,” said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his plate, 
and leaning back. “ Fire away ! ” 

“ I ha’ coom,” Stephen began, raising his eyes from the 
floor, after a moment’s consideration, “ to ask yo yor advice. 
I need’t overmuch. I were married on Eas’r Monday nine- 
teen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass — pretty 
enow — wi’ good accounts of herseln. Well ! She went bad — 
soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind hus- 
band to her.” 

“ I have heard all this before,” said Mr. Bounderby. 
“ She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, 
pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry.” 

“ I were patient wi’ her.” 

(“ The more fool you, I think,” said Mr. Bounderby, in 
confidence to his wineglass.) 

“ I were very patient wi’ her. I tried to wean her fra ’t 
ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t’other. 
I ha’ gone home, many’s the time, and found all vanished as 
I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless 
herseln lying on bare ground. I ha* dun’t not once, not twice 
— twenty time ! ” 

Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in 
its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. 

“ From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. 
She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom 
back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t’ 
hinder her? I ha’ walked the street nights long, ere ever I’d 
go home. I ha’ gone t’ th’ brigg, minded to fling m3^seln 
ower, and ha’ no more on’t. I ha’ bore that much, that I 
were owd v/hen I were young.” 

Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, 
raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much 
as to say, “The great know trouble as well as the small 
Please to turn your humble eye in My direction.” 


NO WA Y OUT. 


603 

“ I ha’ paid her to keep awa’ fra’ me. These five year I 
ha’ paid her. I ha’ gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I 
ha’ lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo’ a’ the 
minnits o’ my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay 
upon my har-stone ! There she is ! ” 

In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his dis- 
tress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another 
moment, he stood as he had stood all the time — his usual stoop 
upon him ; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, 
with a curious expression on it^ half shrewd, half perplexed, as 
if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult ; 
his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip ; his 
right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, veiy^ 
earnestly emphasizing what he said : not least so when it al- 
ways paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. 

“ I was acquainted with all this, you know,” said Mr. 
Bounderby, “ except the last clause, long ago. It’s a bad job ; 
that’s what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you 
were, and not have got married. However, it’s too late to say 
that.” 

“Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?” 
asked Mrs. Sparsit. 

“You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal mar- 
riage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours ? ” said Mr. 
Bounderby. 

“Not e’en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln ; she were 
twenty nighbut.” 

“ Indeed sir ? ” said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great 
placidity. “ I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, 
that it was probably an unequal one in point of years.” 

Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a 
side -long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He 
fortified himself with a little more sherry. 

“ Well ? Why don’t you go on ? ” he then asked, turning 
rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. 

“ I ha’ coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o’ this 
woman.” Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed 
expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gen- 
tle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Bounderby, getting up to lean 
his back against the chimney-piece. “ What are you talking 
about ? You took her for better for worse.” 

“ I mun’ be ridden o’ her. I cannot bear’t nommore. I 


6o4 


//AJ^n TIMES. 


ha lived under so long, for that I ha’ had’n the pity and 
comforting words o’ th’ best lass living or dead. Haply, but 
for her, I should ha’ gone hottering mad.” 

He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he 
speaks, I fear sir,” observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and 
much dejected by the immorality of the people. 

‘‘ I do. The lady says what’s right. I do. I were a coming 
to ’t. I ha’ read i’ th’ papers that great fok (fair faw ’em a’ ! 
I wishes ’em no hurt !) are not bonded together for better for 
worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro’ their misfortnet 
marriages, an marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for 
that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o’ one kind an 
another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asun- 
ders. We fok ha’ only one room, and we can’t. When that 
won’t do, they ha’ gowd an other cash, an they can say ‘ This 
for yo’ an that for me,’ an they can go their separate ways. 
We can’t. Spite o’ all that, they can be set free for smaller 
wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o’ this woman, and I 
want t’ know how ? ” 

No how,” returned Mr. Bounderby. 

“ If I do her any hurt, sir, there’s a law to punish me ? ” 

“ Of course there is.” 

‘‘ If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish me ? ” 

“ Of course there is.” 

If I marry t’oother dear lass, there’s a law to punish 
me ? ” 

‘‘ Of course there is.” 

If I was to live wi’ her an not marry her — saying such a 
thing could be, which it never could or would, an her so good 
— there’s a law to punish me, in every innocent child belong- 
ing to me ? ” 

‘‘ Of course there is.” 

“Now, a’ God’s name,” said Stephen Blackpool, “show 
me the law to help me ! ” 

“ Hem ! There’s a sanctity in this relation of life,” said 
Mr. Bounderby, “ and — and — it must be kept up.” 

“No no, dunnot say that, sir. ’Tan’t kep’ up that way. 
Not that way. ’Tis kep’ down that way. I’m a weaver, I 
were in a fact’ry when a chilt, but I ha’ gotten een to see wi’ 
and eern to year wi’. I read in th’ papers every ’Sizes, every 
Sessions — and you read too — I know it ! — with dismay — how 
th’ supposed unpossiblity o’ ever getting unchained from one 
another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this 


NO WA Y OUT. 


605 

land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, 
and sudden death. Let us ha^ this, right understood. Mine’s 
a grievous case, an I want — if yo will be so good — t’ know the 
law that helps me.” 

Now, I tell you what ! ” said Mr. Bounderby, putting 
his hands in his pockets. “ There is such a law.” 

Stephen subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wan- 
dering in his attention, gave a nod. 

But it’s not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a 
mint of money.” 

“ How much might that be ? ” Stephen calmly asked. 

“ Why, you’d have to go to Doctors’ Commons with a suit, 
and you’d have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, 
and you’d have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and 
you’d have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry 
again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain 
sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound,” 
said Mr. Bounderby. ‘‘ Perhaps twice the money.” 

There’s no other law ? ” 

‘‘ Certainly not.” 

“ Why then, sir,” said Stephen, turning white and motion- 
ing with that right hand of his, as if he gave everything to the 
four winds, ’/A a muddle. ’Tis just a muddle a’toogether, 
an the sooner I am dead, the better.” 

(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety of the people). 

Pooh, pooh ! Don’t you talk nonsense, my good fellow,” 
said Mr. Bounderby, “ about things you don’t understand ; 
and don’t you call the Institutions of your country a muddle, 
or you’ll get yourself into a real muddle one of these fine 
mornings. The institutions of your country are not yorlr piece- 
work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your 
piece-work. You didn’t take your wife for fast and for loose ; 
but for better for worse. If she has turned out worse — why, 
all we have got to say is, she might have turned out better.” 

“ ’Tis a muddle,” said Stephen, shaking his head as h^ 
moved to the door. ‘‘ ’Tis all a muddle !” 

Now, I’ll tell you what ! ” Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a 
valedictory^ address. ‘‘ With what I shall call your unhallowed 
opinions, you have been quite shocking this lady : who, as 1 
have already told you, is a born lady, and who as I have not 
already told you, has had her own marriage misfortunes to 
the tune of tens of thousands of pounds — tens of Thousands 
of Pounds ! ” (he repeated it with great relish). ‘‘ Now, you 


6o6 


HARD TIMES 


have always been a steady Hand hitherto ; but my opinion is, 
and so I tell you plainly, that you are turning into the wrong 
road. You have been listening to some mischievous stranger 
or other — they’re always about — -and the best thing you can 
do is, to come out of that. Now you know,” here his counte- 
nance expressed marvellous acuteness ; ‘‘ I can see as far 
into a grindstone as another man ; farther than a good many, 
perhaps, because I had my nose well kept to it when I was 
young. I see traces of the turtle soup, and venison, and gold 
spoon in this. Yes I do ! ” cried Mr. Bounderby, shaking 
his head with obstinate cunning. By the Lord Harry, I do ! ” 
With a very different shake of the head and deep sigh, 
Stephen said, “ Thank you, sir, I wish you good-day.” So he 
left Mr. Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the wall, 
as if he were going to explode himself into it ; and Mrs. Sparsit 
still ambling on with her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast 
down by the popular vices. 


CHAPTER XH. 

THE OLD WOMAN. 

Old Stephen descended the two white steps, shutting the 
black door with the brazen door-plate, by the aid of the brazen 
full-stop, to which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve of 
his coat, observing that his hot hand clouded it. He crossed 
the street with his eyes bent upon the ground, and thus was 
walking sorrowfully away, when he felt a touch upon his arm. 

It was not the touch he needed most at such a moment — 
the touch that could calm the wild waters of his soul, as the 
uplifted hand of the sublimest love and patience could abate 
the raging of the sea — yet it was a woman’s hand too. It was 
an old woman, tall and shapely still, though withered by time, 
on whom his eyes fell when he stopped and turned. She was 
very cleanly and plainly dressed, had country mud upon her 
shoes, and was newly come from a journey. The flutter of 
her manner, in the unwonted noise of the streets ; the spare 
shawl, carried unfolded on her arm ; the heavy umbrella, and 
little basket ; the loose long-fingered gloves, to which her 
hands were unused ; all bespoke an old woman from the coun- 


THE OLD WOMAN. 


607 

try, in her plain holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an 
expedition of rare occurrence. Remarking this at a glance, 
with the quick observation of his class, Stephen Blackpool 
bent his attentive face — his face, which, like the faces of many 
of his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in 
the midst of a prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated 
look with which we are familiar in the countenances of 
the deaf — the better to hear what she asked him. “ 

‘‘Pray, sir,'’ said the old woman, “ Didn’t I see you come 
out of that gentleman’s house ?” pointing back to Mr. Boun- 
derby’s. “ I believe it was you, unless I have had the bad 
luck to mistake the person in following ? ” 

“Yes, missus,” returned Stephen, “it w^re me.” 

“ Have you — you’ll excuse an old woman’s curiosity — have 
you seen the gentleman ^ ” 

“ Yes, missus.” 

“And how did he look, sir? Was he portly, bold, out- 
spoken, and hearty?” As she straightened her own figure, 
and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, 
the idea crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman 
before, and had not quite liked her. 

“ O yes,” he returned, obser\dng her more attentively, “he 
were all that.” 

“ And healthy,” said the old woman, “ as the fresh wind ?” 

“ Yes,” returned Stephen. “ He were ett’n and drinking — 
as large and as loud as a Hummobee.” 

“ Thank you ! ” said the old woman, with infinite content. 
“Thank you ! ” 

He certainly never had seen this old woman before. Yet 
there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had 
more than once dreamed of some old woman like her. 

She walked along at his side, and, gently accommodating 
himself to her humor, he said Coketown was a busy place, 
was it not ? To which she answered “ Eigh sure ! Dreadful 
busy ! ” Then he said, she came from the country, he saw ? 
To which she answered in the affirmative. 

“ By Parliamentary, this morning. I came forty mile by 
Parliamentary this morning, and I’m going back the same 
forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station 
this morning, and if I find nobody on the road to give me a 
lift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night. That’s pretty 
well, sir, at my age!” said the chatty old woman, her eye 
brightening with exultation. 


6o8 


HARD TIMES, 


“ ’Deed ’tis. Don’t do’t too often, missus,” 

“ No, no. Once a year,” she answered, shaking her head. 
‘‘I spend my savings so, once every year. I come regular, to 
tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen.” 

‘‘ Only to see ’em I ” returned Stephen. 

That’s enough for me,” she replied, with great earnest- 
ness and interest of manner. I ask no more ! I have been 
standing about, on this side of the way, to see that gentle- 
man,” turning her head back towards Mr. Bounderby’s again, 
‘‘come out. But, he’s late this year, and I have not seen 
him. You came out instead. Now, if I am obliged to go 
back without a glimpse of him — I only want a glimpse — well ! 
I have seen you, and you have seen him, and I must make 
that do.” Saying this, she looked at Stephen as if to fix his 
features in her mind, and her eye was not so bright as it had 
been. 

With a large allowance for difference of tastes, and with 
all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this seemed so 
extraordinary a source of interest to take so much trouble 
about, that it perplexed him. But they were passing the 
church now, and as his eye caught the clock, he quickened 
his pace. 

He was going to his work ? the old woman said, quicken- 
ing hers, too, quite easily. Yes, time was nearly out. On 
his telling her where he worked, the old woman became a 
more singular old woman than before. 

“ An’t you happy ? ” she asked him. 

“ Why — there’s awmost nobbody but has their troubles, 
missus.” He answered evasively, because the old woman 
appeared to take it for granted that he would be very happy 
indeed, and he had not the heart to disappoint her. He 
knew that there was trouble enough in the world ; and if the 
old woman had lived so long, and could count upon his hav- 
so little, why so much the better for her, and none the worse 
for him. 

“ Ay, ay ! You have your troubles at home, you mean ? ” 
she said. 

“ Times. Just now and then,” he answered, slightly. 

“ But, working under such a gentleman, they don’t follow 
you to the Factory ? ” 

No, no ; they didn’t follow him there, said Stephen. All 
correct there. Eveiy^thing accordant there. (He did not go 
so far as to say, for her pleasure, that there was a sort of 


THE OLD WOMAN. 609 

Divine right there ; but, I have heard claims almost as mag- 
nificent of late years.) 

They were now in the black by-road near the place, and 
the Hands were crowding in. The bell was ringing, and the 
Serpent was a Serpent of many coils, and the Elephant was 
getting ready. The strange old woman was delighted with 
the very bell. It was the beautifullest bell she had ever 
heard, she said, and sounded grand ! 

She asked him, when he stopped goodnaturedly to shake 
hands with her before going in, how long he had worked 
there ? 

“ A dozen year,” he told her. 

I must kiss the hand,” said she, “that has worked in 
this fine factory for a dozen year ! ” And she lifted it, though 
he would have prevented her, and put it to her lips. What 
harmony, besides her age and her simplicity, surrounded her, 
he did not know, but even in this fantastic action there was a 
something neither out of time nor place ; a something which 
it seemed as if nobody else could have made as serious, or 
done with such a natural and touching air. 

He had been at his loom full half an hour, thinking about 
this old woman, when, having occasion to move round the 
loom for its adjustment, he glanced through a window which 
was in his corner, and saw her still looking up at the pile of 
building, lost in admiration. Heedless of the smoke and 
mud and wet, and of her two long journeys, she was gazing 
at it, as if the heavy thrum that issued from its many stories 
were proud music to her. 

She was gone by and by, and the day went after her, and 
the lights sprung up again, and the Express whirled in full 
sight of the Fairy palace over the arches near: little felt amid 
the jarring of the machinery, and scarcely heard above its 
crash and rattle. Long before then his thoughts had gone 
back to the dreary room above the little shop, and to the 
shameful figure heavy on the bed, but heavier on his heart. 

Machinery slackened ; throbbing feebly like a fainting 
pulse ; stopped. The bell again ; the glare of light and heat 
dispelled ; the factories, looming heavy in the black wet 
night — their tall chimneys rising up into the air like compet- 
ing Towers of Babel. 

He had spoken to Rachael only last night, it was true, 
and had walked with her a little way ; but he had his new 
misfortune on him, in which no one else could give him a mo- 


6io 


//AA^D TIMES. 


merit’s relief, and, for the sake of it, and because he knew 
himself to want that softening of his anger which no voice but 
hers could effect, he felt he might so far disregard what she 
had said as to wait for her again. He waited, but she had 
eluded him. She was gone. On no other night in the year 
could he so ill have spared her patient face. 

O ! Better to have no home in which to lay his head, 
than to have a home and dread to go to it, through such a 
cause. He ate and drank, for he was exhausted — but he 
little knew or cared what ; and he wandered about in the chill 
rain, thinking and thinking, and brooding and brooding. 

No word of a new marriage had ever passed between 
them ; but Rachael had taken great pity on him years ago, 
and to her alone he had opened his closed heart all this time, 
on the subject of his miseries ; and he knew very well that if 
he were free to ask her, she would take him. He thought of 
the home he might at that moment have been seeking with 
pleasure and pride ; of the different man he might have been 
that night : of the lightness then in his now heavy-laden 
breast ; of the then restored honor, self-respect, and tranquil- 
lity all torn to pieces. He thought of the waste of the best 
part of his life, of the change it made in his character for the 
worse every day, of the dreadful nature of his existence, 
bound hand and foot, to a dead woman, and tormented by a 
demon in her shape. He thought of Rachael, how .young 
when they were first brought together in these circumstances, 
how mature now, how soon to grow old. He thought of the 
number of girls and women she had seen marry, how many 
homes with children in them she had seen grow up around 
her, how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quiet 
path — for him — and how he had sometimes seen a shade of 
melancholy on her blessed face, that smote him with remorse 
and despair. He set the picture of her up, beside the infa- 
mous image of last night ; and thought. Could it be, that the 
whole earthly course of one so gentle, good, and self-denying, 
was subjugate to such a wretch as that ! 

Filled with these thoughts — so filled that he had an un- 
wholesome sense of growing larger, of being placed in some 
new and diseased relation towards the objects among which 
he passed, of seeing the iris round every misty light turn red 
— he went home for shelter. 


RACHAEL, 


Gil 


CHAPTER XIII. 

RACHAEL. 

A CANDLE faintly burned in the window, to which the 
black ladder had often been raised for the sliding away of all 
that was most precious in this world to a striving wife and a 
brood of hungry babies ; and Stephen added to his other 
thoughts the stern reflection, that of all the casualties of this 
existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with so unequal 
a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. 
For, say that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver 
were born to-night in the same moment, what was that dis- 
parity, to the death of any human creature who was service- 
able to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman 
lived on I 

From the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the 
inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He 
went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room. 

Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by 
the bed. 

She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in 
upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching 
and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one 
lay there, and he knew too well it must be she ; but Rachael’s 
hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from 
his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some 
of Rachael’s were in the room. Everything was in its place 
and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly 
trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to 
him that he saw all this in Rachael’s face, and looked at 
nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from 
his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes ; but not 
before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how 
her own eyes were filled too. 

She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself 
that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice. 

I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are 
very late.” 

“ I ha’ been walking up an’ down.” 


6i2 


TIMES. 


I thought so. But his too bad a night for that. The 
rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen. 

The wind ? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the 
thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise ! To have 
been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blow- 
ing ! 

“ I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Land- 
lady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one 
here that needed looking to, she said. And ’deed she was 
right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and 
bruised.” 

He slowly moved to a chair and sat down, drooping his 
head before her. 

‘‘ 1 came to do what little I could, Stephen ; first, for that 
she worked with me when we were girls both, and for that 
you courted her and married her when I was her friend — ” 

He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, with a low 
groan. 

‘‘ And next, for that I know your heart, and am right sure 
and certain that ’tis far too merciful to let her die, or even so 
much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said, 
‘ Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at 
her ! ” There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not 
the man to cast the last stone, Stephen, when she is brought 
so low.” 

“ O Rachael, Rachael ! ” 

“ Thou hast been a cruel sufferer. Heaven reward thee ! ” 
she said, in compassionate accents. “ I am thy poor friend, 
with all my heart and mind.” 

The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be about 
the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now, 
still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a 
basin, into which she poured some liquid from a br Ltle, and 
laid it with a gentle hand upon the sore. The three-legged 
table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it there 
were two bottles. This was one. 

It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her 
hands with her eyes, could read what was printed on it in 
large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden 
h(*rror seemed to fall upon him. 

“ I will stay here, Stephen,” said Rachael, quietly resum- 
ing her seat, ‘‘ till the bells go Three. ’Tis to be done again 
at three, and then she may be left till morning.” 


RACHAEL, 


613 


But thy rest agen to-morrow^s work, my dear.” 

“ I slept sound last night. I can wake many nights, when 
I am put to it. ’Tis thou who art in need of rest — so white 
and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. 
Thou hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-mon 
row’s work is far harder for thee than for me.” 

He heard the thundering and surging out of doors, and it 
seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about 
trying to get at him. She had cast it out ; she would keep it 
out j he trusted to her to defend him from himself. 

“ She don’t know me, Stephen ; she just drowsily mutters 
and stares. I have spoken to her times a: 1 again, but she 
don’t notice ! ’Tis as well so. When she comes to her right 
mind once more, I shall have done what I cam, and she never 
the wiser.” 

How long, Rachael, is’t looked for, that she’ll be so ? ” 
Doctor said she would haply come to her mind to-mor- 
row.” 

His eyes fell again on the bottle, and a tremble passed 
over him, causing him to shiver in every limb. She thought 
he was chilled with the wet. No,” he said, ‘^it was not 
that. He had had a fright.” 

‘‘ A fright ” 

“Ay, ay! coming in. When I were walking. When I 
were thinking. When I — ” It seized him again ; and he 
stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank 
cold hair down with a hand that shook as if it were palsied. 

“ Stephen 1 ” 

She was coming to him, but he stretched out his arm to 
stop her. 

“ No 1 Don’t please ; don’t. Let me see thee setten by 
the bed. Let me see thee, a’ so good, and so forgiving. 
Let me see thee as I see thee when I coom in. 1 can never 
see thee better than so. Never, never, never ! ” 

He had a violent fit of trembling, and then sunk into his 
chair. After a time he controlled himself, and, resting with 
an elbow on one knee, and his head upon that hand, could 
look towards Rachael. Seen across the dim candle with his 
moistened eyes, she looked as if she had a glory shining 
round her head. He could have believed she had. He did 
believe it, as the noise without shook the window, rattled at 
the door below, and went about the house clamoring and 
Jameiiting. 


6i4 


//A/^n TIMES. 


When she gets better, Stephen, ^tis to be hoped shedl 
leave thee to thyself again, and do thee no more hurt. Any- 
ways we will hope so now. And now I shall keep silence, 
for I want thee to sleep.” 

He closed his eyes, more to please her than to rest his 
weary head ; but, by slow degrees as he listened to the great 
noise of the wind, he ceased to hear it, or it changed into the 
working of his loom, or even into the voices of the day (his 
own included) saying what^ had been really said. Even this 
imperfect consciousness faded away at last, and he dreamed 
a long, troubled dream. 

He thought that he, and some one on whom his heart had 
long been set — but she was not Rachael, and that surprised 
him, even in the midst of his imaginary happiness — stood in 
the church being married. While the ceremony was perform- 
ing, and while he recognized among the witnesses some whom 
he knew to be living, and many whom he knew to be dead, 
darkness came on, succeeded by the shining of a tremendous 
light. It broke from one line in the table of commandments 
at the altar, and illumined the building with the words. They 
were sounded through the church, too, as if there were voices 
in the fiery letters. Upon this, the whole appearance before 
him and around him changed, and nothing was left as it 
had been, but himself and the clergyman. They stood in the 
daylight before a crowd so vast, that if all the people in the 
world could have been brought together into one space, they 
could not have looked, he thought, more numerous ; and they 
all abhorred him, and there was not one pitying or friendly 
eye among the millions that were fastened on his face. He 
stood on a raised stage, under his own-loom ; and, looking up 
at the shape the loom took, and hearing the burial service 
distinctly read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In 
an instant what he stood on fell below him, and he was gone. 

Out of what mystery he came back to his usual life, and to 
places that he knew, he was unable to consider ; but he was 
back in those places by some means, and with this condemna- 
tion upon him, that he was never, in this world or the next, 
through all the unimaginable ages of eternity, to look on Ra- 
chaeks face or hear her voice. Wandering to and fro, un- 
ceasingly, without hope, and in search of he knew not what 
(he only knew that he was doomed to seek it), he was the 
subject of a nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear of one 
particular shape which everything took. Whatsoever he 


I^ACHAEL. 


615 

looked at, grew into that form sooner or later. The object 
of his miserable existence was to prevent its recognition by 
any one among the various people he encountered. Hopeless 
labor ! If he led them out of rooms where it was, if he shut 
up drawers and closets where it stood, if he drew the curious 
from places where he knew it to be secreted, and got them 
out into the streets, the very chimneys of the mills assumed 
that shape, and round them was the printed word. 

The wind was blowing again, the rain was beating on the 
housetops, and the larger spaces through which he had strayed 
contracted to the four walls of his room. Saving that the fire 
had died out, it was as his eyes had closed upon it. Rachael 
seemed to have fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed. 
She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. The table 
stood in the same place, close by the bedside, and on it, in its 
real proportions and appearance, was the shape so often re- 
j)eated. 

He thought he saw the curtain move. He looked again, 
and he was sure it moved. He saw a hand come forth and 
grope about a little. Then the curtain moved more percep- 
tibly, and the woman in the bed put it back, and sat* up. 

With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and 
large, she looked all round the room, and passed the corner 
where he slept in his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, 
and she put her hand over them as a shade, while she looked 
into it Again they went all round the room, scarcely 
heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He 
thought, as she once more shaded them — not so much looking 
at him, as looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was 
there — that no single trace was left in those debauched fea- 
tures, or in the mind that went along with them, of the woman 
he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen 
her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her 
to be the same. 

All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless 
and powerless, except to watch her. 

Stupidly dozing, or cornmuning with her incapable self 
about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at her 
ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed 
her staring round the room. And now, for the first time, hei 
eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it. 

Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with 
the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and 
softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into 


6i6 


//AA^n TIMES. 


the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two 
bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate 
grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, 
and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. 

Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to 
stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, 
wake, Rachael, wake ! 

She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and 
very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The 
draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past 
all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with 
its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up 
with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, 
seized her by the hair ; but Rachael had the cup. 

Stephen broke out of his chair. “ Rachael, am I wakin’ 
or dreamin’ this dreadfo’ night ? 

“ ’Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep myself. ’Tis 
near three. Hush ! I hear the bells.” 

The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the 
window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked 
at her, saw how pale sh'e was, noted the disorder of her hair, 
and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured 
that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She 
held the cup in her hand even now. 

‘‘ I thought it must be near three,” she said, calmly pour- 
ing from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as be- 
fore. ‘‘ I am thankful I stayed ! ’Tis done now, when I have 
put this on. There ! And now she’s quiet again. The few 
drops in the basin I’ll pour away, for ’tis bad stuff to leave 
about, though ever so little of it.” As she spoke, she drained 
the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on 
the hearth. 

Che had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her 
shawl before going out into the wind and rain. 

“ Thou’lt let me walk wi’ thee at this hour, Rachael ? ” 

“ No, Stephen. ’Tis but a minute, and I’m home.” 

“ Thou’rt not fearfo’ ; ” he said it in a low voice, as they 
went out at the door ; ‘‘ to leave me alone wi’ her ! ” 

As she looked at him, saying, “ Stephen ? ” he went down 
on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put au 
end of her shawl to his lips. 

“ Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee ! ” 

I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. 
Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working 


RACI/A EL. 617 

woman fii’ of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister 
is among them, but she is changed.” 

She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words \ 
and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, 
on his face. 

‘‘ Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak’st me 
humbly wishfo’ to be more like thee, and fearfo’ to lose thee 
when this life is ower, and a’ the muddle cleared awa’. Thou’rt 
an Angel ; it may be, thou hast saved my soul alive ! ” 

She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her shawl 
still in his hand, and the reproof on her lips died away when 
she saw the working of his face. 

I coom home desp’rate. I coom diome_ wi’out a hope, 
and mad wi’ thinking that when I said a word o’ complaint I 
was reckoned a onreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had 
a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt 
a livin’ creetur ; but happenin’ so suddenly upon ’t, I thowt, 
‘ How can / say what I might ha’ done to myseln, or her, or 
both!”’ 

She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, 
to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his unoc- 
cupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border 
of her shawl, said hurriedly : 

“ But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha’ seen 
thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I ha’ known thee 
still to be there. Evermore 1 will see thee there. I nevermore 
will see her or think o’ her, but thou shalt be beside her. I 
nevermore will see or think o’ anything that angers me, but 
thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th’ side on’t. And 
so I will try t’ look t’ th’ time, and so I will try t’ trust t’ 
th’ time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far 
awa’, beyond the deep gulf, in th’ country where thy little 
sister is.” 

He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. 
She bade him good-night in a broken voice, and went out into 
the street. 

The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon 
appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before 
it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the 
stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in the road, watch- 
ing her quick disappearance. As the shining stars were to 
the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the 
rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his 
life. 


6i8 


HARD TIMES, 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE GREAT MANUFACTURER. 

Time went on in Coke town like its own machinery : so much 
material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers 
worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than 
iron, steel, and brass, it brought its varying seasons even into 
that wilderness of smoke and brick, and made the only stand 
that ever was made in the place against its direful uniformity. 

Louisa is becoming,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘‘ almost a 
young woman.” 

Time, with his innumerable horse-power, worked away, not 
minding what anybody said, and presently turned out young 
Thomas a foot taller than when his father had last taken par- 
ticular notice of him. 

“ Thomas is becoming,” said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘‘ almost a 
young man.” 

Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while his father was 
thinking about it, and there he stood in a long-tailed coat and 
a stiff shirt-collar. 

“ Really,” said Mr. Gradgrind, the period has arrived 
when Thomas ought to go to Bounderby.” 

Time, sticking to him, passed him on into Bounderby’s 
Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby’s house, necessita- 
ted the purchase of his first razor, and exercised him diligently 
in his calculations relative to number one. 

The same great manufacturer, always with an immense va- 
riety of work bn hthd, in every stage of development, passed 
Sissy onward in his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty 
article indeed. 

‘‘I fear, Jupe,” said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘‘that your contin- 
uance at the school any longer would be useless.” 

“ I am afraid it would, sir,” Sissy answered with a curtsey. 

“ I cannot disguise from you, Jupe,” said Mr. Gradgrind, 
knitting his brow, “ that the result of your probation there has 
disappointed me; has greatly disappointed me. You have 
not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs. M‘Choakumchild, anything 
like that amount of exact knowledge which I looked for. You 
are extremely deficient in your facts. Your acquaintance with 


THE GREAT MANUFACTURER, 619 

figures is very limited. You are altogether backward, and 
below the mark.’’ 

I am sorry, sir,” she returned ; ^‘but I know it is quite 
true. Yet I have tried hard, sir.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “yes, I believe you have tried 
hard ; I have observed you, and I can find no fault in that 
respect.” 

“ Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes ; ” Sissy 
very timid here ; “ that perhaps I tried to learn too much, and 
that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I might 
have ” 

“ No, Jupe, no,” said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his head in 
his profoundest and most eminently practical way. “ No. 
The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system 
— the system — and there is no more to be said about it. I 
can only suppose that the circumstances of your early life 
were too unfavorable to the development of your reasoning 
powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said al- 
ready, I am disappointed.” 

“ I wish I could have made a better acknowledgement, sir, 
of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no claim upon 
you, and of your protection of her.” 

“Don’t shed tears,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Don’t shed 
tears. I don’t complain of you. You are an affectionate, 
earnest, good young woman — and — and we must make that 
do.” 

“ Thank you, sir, very much,” said Sissy with a grateful 
curtsey. 

“You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a generally 
pervading way) you are serviceable in the family also ; so I 
understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed 
myself. I therefore hope,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “that you 
can make yourself happy in those relations.” 

“ I should have nothing to wish, sir, if ” 

“ I understand you,” said Mr. Gradgrind ; “ you still refer 
to your father. I have heard from Miss Louisa that you still 
preserve that bottle. Well ! If your training in the science 
of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you 
would have been wiser on these points. I will say no more.” 

He really liked Sissy too well to have a contempt for her j 
otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very slight 
estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. 
Somehow or other, he had become possessed by an idea that 


620 


HARD TIMES. 


there was something in this girl which could hardly be set 
forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definition might be 
easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge 
at nothing ; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, 
for example, to tick her off into columns in a parliamentary 
return, he would have quite known how to divide her. 

In some stages of his manufacture of the human fabric, 
the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and 
Sissy being both at such a stage of their working up, these 
changes were effected in a year or two ; while Mr. Gradgrind 
himself seemed stationary in his course, and underwent no 
alteration. 

Except one, which was apart from his necessary progress 
through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy and 
rather dirty machinery, in a by-corner, and made him Member 
of Parliament for Coketown : one of the respected members 
for ounce weights and measures, one of the representatives of 
the multiplication table, one of the deaf honorable gentlemen, 
dumb honorable gentlemen, blind honorable gentlemen, lame 
honorable gentlemen, dead honorable gentlemen, to every 
other consideration. Else wherefore live we in a Christian 
land, eighteen hundred and odd years after our Master ? 

All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet and 
reserved, and so much given to watching the bright ashes at 
twilight as they fell into the grate and became extinct, that 
from the period when her father had said she was almost a 
young woman — which seemed but yesterday — she had scarce- 
ly attracted his notice again, when he found her quite a young 
woman. 

Quite a young woman,” said Mr. Gradgrind musing. 
“ Dear me ! ” 

Soon after this discovery, he became more thoughtful than 
usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by one 
subject. On a certain night, when he was going out, and 
Louisa came to bid him good-by before his departure — as he 
was not to be home until late and she would not see him 
again until the morning — he held her in his arms, looking at 
her in his kindest manner, and said : 

My dear Louisa, you are a woman ! ” 

She answered with the old, quick, searching look of the 
night when she was found at the Circus ; then cast down her 
eyes. “ Yes, father.” 

“My dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I must speak with you 


THE GREAT MANUFACTURER. 


621 


alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after breakfast 
to-morrow, will you ? ’’ 

‘‘ Yes, father.” 

Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are you not well 1 ” 

“ Quite well, father.” 

‘‘ And cheerful } ” 

She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar man- 
ner. “ I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or usually 
have been.” 

‘‘ That’s well,” said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her 
and went away ; and Louisa returned to the serene apartment 
of the hair-cutting character, and leaning her elbow on her 
hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon sub- 
sided into ashes. 

“Are you there. Loo ? ” said her brother, looking in at the 
door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure now, and 
not quite a prepossessing one. 

“ Dear Tom,” she answered, rising and embracing him, 
“ how long it is since you have been to see me ! ” 

“ Why, I have been otherwise engaged. Loo, in the even- 
ings ; and in the day-time old Bounderby has been keeping 
me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes 
it too strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say ! 
Has father said anything particular to you to-day or yesterday, 
Loo ? ” 

“No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished to do 
so in the morning.” 

“Ah ! That’s what I mean,” said Tom. “Do you know 
where he is to-night ? ” — wdth a very deep expression. 

“ No.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you. “ He’s with old Bounderby. They 
are having a regular confab together up at the Bank. Why 
at the Bank, do you think } Well, I’ll tell you again. To 
keep Mrs. Sparsit’s ears as far off as possible, I expect.” 

With her hand upon her brother’s shoulder, Louisa still 
stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her face 
with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with 
his arm, drew her coaxingly to him. 

“ You are very fond of me, an’t you. Loo ? ” 

“ Indeed I am, Tom, though vou do let such long inter- 
vals go by without coming to see me.” 

“ Well, sister of mine,” said Tom, “ when you say that, you 
are near my thoughts. We might be so much oftener' to- 


622 


//AA^n TAMES, 


gather — mightn’t we ? Always together, almost — mightn’t 
we ? It would do me a great deal of good if you were to make 
up your mind to I know what, Loo, It would be a splendid 
thing for me. It would be uncommonly jolly ! ” 

Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He 
could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his ariii, 
and kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked 
at the fire. 

I say. Loo ! I thought I’d. come, and just hint to you 
what was going on : though I supposed you’d most likely 
guess, even if you didn’t know. I can’t stay, because I’m 
engaged to some fellows to-night. You won’t forget how fond 
you are of me ? ” 

“ No, dear Tom, I won’t forget.” 

‘‘That’s a capital girl,” said Tom. “Good-by, Loo.” 

She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out 
with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be 
seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking 
steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. 
They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge ; 
and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. 
It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and 
then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind 
of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spin- 
ner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun 
into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is 
noiseless, and his Hands are mutes. 


CHAPTER XV. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Although Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue Beard, 
his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue 
books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually any- 
thing you like), they proved there, in an army constantly 
strengthening by the arrival of new recruits. In that charmed 
apartment, the most complicated social questions were cast 


father and daughter. 623 

up, got into exact totals, and finally settled — if those con- 
cerned could only be brought to know it. As if an astronom- 
ical observatory should be made without any windows, and 
the astronomer within should arrange the starry ’iinirerse 
solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in his Obser- 
vatory (and there are many like it), had no need to cast an 
eye upon the teeming myriads of human beings around him, 
but could settle all their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all 
their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge. 

To this Obsen^ator}^, then : a stern room, with a deadly 
statistical clock in it, which measured every second with a 
beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid ; Louisa repaired on the ap- 
pointed morning. A window looked towards Goketown ; and 
when she sat down near her father’s table, she saw the high 
chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy 
distance gloomily. 

“ My dear Louisa,” said her father, I prepared you last 
night to give me your serious attention in the conversation 
we are now going to have together. You have been so well 
trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to 
the education you have received, that I have perfect con- 
fidence in your good sense. You are not impulsive, you are 
not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from 
the strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. 
From that ground alone, I know you will view and consider 
what I am going to communicate.” 

He waited, as if he would have been glad that she said 
something. But she said never a word. 

“ Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of 
marriage that has been made to me.” 

Again he waited, and again she answered not one word. 
This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to repeat, 
“ a proposal of marriage, my dear.” To which she returned, 
without any visible emotion whatever : 

“ I hear you, father. I am attending, I assure you.” 

“Well ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after 
being for the moment at a loss, “ you are even more dispas- 
sionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are not 
unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to 
make } ” 

“ I cannot say that, father, until I hear it. Prepared or 
unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I wish to hear 
- you state it to me, father.” 


624 


I/A/CD TIMES. 


Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collected at this 
moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife in his 
hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even 
then had to look along the blade of it, considering how to 
go on. 

What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reasonable. 

I have undertaken then to let you know that in short, 

that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched 
your progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has 
long hoped that the time might ultimately arrive when he 
should offer you his hand in marriage. That time, to which 
he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, looked 
forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal 
of marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known 
to you, and to express his hope that you will take it into your 
favorable consideration.’’ 

Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock very 
hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy. 

‘‘Father,” said Louisa, “do you think I love Mr. Boun- 
derby 1 ” 

Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this unex- 
pected question. “Well, my child,” he returned, “I — really 
— cannot take upon myself to say.” 

“ Father,” pursued Louisa in exactly the same voice as 
before, “ do you ask me to love Mr. Bounderby ? ” 

“ My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing.” 

“ Father,” she still pursued, “ does Mr. Bounderby ask 
me to love him ? ” 

“ Really, my dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ it is difficult to 
answer your question — ” 

“ Difficult to answer it. Yes or No, father? ” 

“ Certainly, my dear. Because ; ” here was something to 
demonstrate, and it set him up again ; “ because the reply 
depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use 
the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the 
injustice, and does not do himself the injustice, of pretending 
to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymous 
terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you 
grow up under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so 
far forgot what is due to your good sense, not to say to his, 
as to address you from any such ground. Therefore, perhaps 
the expression itself — I merely suggest this to you, my dear — 
may be a little misplaced.” 


FATHER A AH DAUGHTER. 


625 

What would you advise me to use in its stead, father ? 

Why, my dear Louisa,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, completely 
recovered by this time I would advise you (since you ask 
me) to consider this question, as you have been accustomed 
to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible 
Fact. The ignorant and the giddy may embarrass such sub- 
jects with irrelevant fancies, and other absurdities that have 
no existence, properly viewed — really no existence — but it is 
no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what 
are the Facts of this case ? You are, we will say in round 
numbers, twenty years of age ; Mr. Bounderby is, we will say 
in round numbers, fifty. There is some disparity in your re- 
spective years, but in your means and position’s there is none ; 
on the contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the ques- 
tion arises, Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar 
to such a marriage ? In considering this question, it is not 
unimportant to take into account the statistics of marriage, so 
far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. 
I find, on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of 
these marriages are contracted between parties of very un- 
equal ages, and that the elder of these contracting parties is, 
in rather more than three-fourths of these instances, the bride- 
groom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of 
this law, that among the natives of the British possessions in 
India, also in a considerable part of China, and among the 
Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation yet fur- 
nished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I 
have mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and 
(virtually) all but disappears.” 

“What do you recommend, father,” asked Louisa, her re- 
served composure not in the least affected by these gratifying 
results, “that I should substitute for the term I used just 
now ? For the misplaced expression 't ” 

“ Louisa,” returned her father, “ it appears to me that 
nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigidly to Fact, the 
question of Fact you state to yourself is : Does Mr. Bounder- 
by ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remain- 
ing question then is : Shall I marry him ? I think nothing 
can be plainer than that ? ” 

“ Shall I marry him ? ” repeated Louisa, with great de- 
liberation. 

“Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your father, 
my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come to the consider- 
27 


626 


HARD TIMES. 


ation of that question with the previous habits of mind, and 
habits of life, that belong to many young women.” 

“ No, father,” she returned, “ I do not.” 

“ I now leave you to judge for yourself,” said Mr. Grad- 
grind. have stated the case, as such cases are usually 
stated among practical minds j I have stated it, as the case of 
your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my 
dear Louisa, is for you to decide.” 

From the beginning, she had sat looking at him fixedly. 
As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes 
upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one waver- 
ing moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself 
upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her 
heart. But, to see it, he must have overleaped at a bound 
the artificial barriers he had for many years been erecting, be- 
tween himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which 
will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet 
ever to be sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The 
barriers were too many and too high for such a leap. With 
his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, he hardened her 
again ; and the moment shot away into the plumbless depths 
of the past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities that are 
drowned there. 

Removing her eyes from him, she sat so long looking 
silently towards the town, that he said, at length : Are you 
consulting the chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa ? ” 

“ There seems to be nothing there but languid and mono- 
tonous smoke. Yet when the night comes, Fire bursts out, 
father ! ” she answered, turning quickly. 

‘‘ Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not see the appli- 
cation of the remark.” To do him justice he did not, at all. 

She passed it away with a slight motion of her hand, and 
concentrating her attention upon him again, said, Father I 
have often thought that life is very short.” — This was so dis- 
tinctly one of his subjects that he interposed. 

“It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the average dura- 
tion of human life is proved to have increased of late yearSo 
The calculations of various life assurance and annuity offices, 
among other figures which cannot go wrong, have established 
the fact.” 

“ I speak of my own life. Father.” 

“ O indeed ? Still,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ I need not point 
out to you, Louisa, that it is governed by the laws which 
iB;overn lives in the aggregate.” 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 627 

“ While it lasts, I would wish to do the little I can, and 
the little I am fit for. What does it matter ? ’’ 

Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to understand the 
last four words ; replying, How, matter ? What matter, my 
dear ? ” 

Mr. Bounderby,” she went on in a steady, straight way, 
without regarding this, “ asks me to marry him. The ques- 
tion I have to ask myself is, shall I marry him ? That is so, 
father, is it not? You have told me so, father. Have you 
not ? ” 

‘‘ Certainly, my dear.’’ 

“ Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to take me 
thus, I am satisfied to accept his proposal. Tell him, father, 
as soon as you please, that this was my answer. Repeat it, 
word for word, if you can, because I should wish him to know 
what I said.” 

‘Ht is quite right, my dear,” retorted her father approv- 
ingly, ‘‘ to be exact. I will observe your very proper request. 
Have you any wish in reference to the period of your marriage, 
my child ? ” 

“ None, father. What does it matter ! ” 

Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little nearer to her, 
and taken her hand. But, her repetition of these words seemed 
to strike with some little discord on his ear. He paused to 
look at her, and still holding her hand, said : 

“ Louisa, I have not considered it essential to ask you 
one question, because the possibility implied in it appeared 
to me to be too remote. But perhaps I ought to do so. You 
have never entertained in secret any other proposal ? ” 

“ Father,” she returned, almost scornfully, “what other 
proposal can have been made to me ? Whom have I seen ? 
Where have I been ? What are my heart’s experiences ? ” 

“ My dear Louisa,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, reassured 
and satisfied. “You correct me justly. I merely wished to 
discharge my duty.” 

“What do I know, father,” said Louisa in her quiet man- 
ner, “ of tastes and fancies ; of aspirations and affections ; of 
all that part of my nature in which such light things might 
have been nourished ? What escape have I had from prob- 
lems that could be demonstrated, and realities that could be 
grasped ? ” As she said it, she unconsciously closed her hand, 
as if upon a solid object, and slowly opened it as though she 
were releasing dust or ash. 


628 


//AA^J? TIMES, 


My dear,” assented her eminently practical parent, 
“ quite true, quite true.” 

‘‘ Why, father,” she pursued, ‘‘ what a strange question to 
ask me ! The baby-preference that even I have heard of as 
common among children, has never had its innocent resting- 
place in my breast. You have been so careful of me, that I 
never had a child’s heart. You have trained me so well, that 
I never dreamed a child’s dream. You have dealt so wisely 
with me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had 
a child’s belief or a child’s fear.” 

Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his success, and by 
this testimony to it. My dear Louisa,” said he, “ you 
abundantly repay my care. Kiss me, my dear girl.” 

So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining her in his em- 
brace, he said, I may assure you now, my favorite child, that 
I am made happy by the sound decision at which you have 
arrived. Mr. Bounderby is a very remarkable man ; and 
what little disparity can be said to exist between you — if any 
— is more than counterbalanced by the tone your mind has 
acquired. It has always been my object so to educate you, 
as that you might, while still in your early youth, be (if I may 
so express myself) almost any age. Kiss me once more, 
Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.” 

Accordingly, they went down to the drav/ing-room, where 
the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her, was recumbent 
as usual, while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some 
feeble signs of returning animation when they entered, and 
presently the faint transparency was presented in a sitting 
attitude. 

“ Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband, who had waited for 
the achievement of this feat with some impatience, “ allow 
me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby.” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “ so you have settled it 1 
Well, I’m sure I hope your health may be good, Louisa ; for 
if your head begins to split as soon as you are married, which 
was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be 
envied, though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls 
do. However, I give you joy, my dear — and I hope you may 
now turn all your ological studies to good account, I am sure 
I do 1 I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa ; but 
don’t touch my right shoulder, for there’s something running 
down it all day long. And now you see,” whimpered Mrs. 
Gradgrind, adjusting her shawl after the affectionate cere- 


HUSBAiVB AND WIFE, 629 

mony, “ I shall be worrying myself, morning, noon, and night, 
to know what I am to call him ! ” 

‘‘ Mrs. Gradgrind,’^ said her husband, solemnly, “ what do 
you mean ? ” 

Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he is 
married to Louisa ! I must call him something. It’s impos- 
sible,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of polite- 
ness and injury, ‘‘ to be constantly addressing him and never 
giving him a name. I cannot call him Josiah, for the name 
is insupportable to me. You yourself wouldn’t hear of Joe, 
you very well know. Am I to call my own son-in-law. Mister. 
Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an in- 
valid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, 
what am I to call him ! ” 

Nobody present having any suggestion to offer in the re- 
markable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for 
the time being, after delivering the following codicil to her 
remarks already executed : 

‘‘ As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, — and I ask it 
with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends to the 
soles of my feet, — that it may take place soon. Otherwise, 
I know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the 
last of.” 

When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs. Bounderby, 
Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, 
in pity, in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, to- 
wards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seen it, without 
looking at her. From that moment she was impassive, proud 
and cold — held Sissy at a distance — changed to her altogether. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Mr. Boun derby’s first disquietude on hearing of his hap- 
piness, was occasioned by the necessity of imparting it to 
Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do 
that, or what the consequences of the step might be. Whether 


HARD TIMES. 


630 

she would instantly depart, ba^ and baggage, to Lady Scadgers 
or would positively refuse to budge from the premises , 
whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing ; 
whether she would break her heart, or break the looking- 
glass ; Mr. Bounderby could not at all foresee. However, as 
it must be done, he had no choice but to do it ; so, after at- 
tempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resolved 
to do it by word of mouth. 

On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this 
momentous purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into 
a chemist’s shop and buying a bottle of the very strongest 
smelling-salts. By George ! ” said Mr. Bounderby, “ if she 
takes it in the fainting way. I’ll have the skin off her nose, at 
all events ! ” But, in spite of being thus forearmed, he en- 
tered his own house with anything but a courageous air ; and 
appeared before the object of his misgivings, like a dog who 
was conscious of coming direct from the pantry. 

‘‘ Good-evening, Mr, Bounderby ! ” 

Good-evening, ma’am, good-evening.” He drew up his 
chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew back hers, as who should say, 
Your fireside, sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to occupy 
it all, if you think proper.” 

Don’t go to the North Pole, ma’am ! ” said Mr. Bound- 
erby. 

Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Sparsit, and returned, though 
short of her former position. 

Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points of a 
stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes for some in- 
scrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An 
operation which, taken in connection with the bushy eyebrows 
and the Roman nose, suggested with some liveliness the idea 
of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She 
was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before 
she looked up from her work ; when she did so Mr. Bound- 
erby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his head. 

‘‘ Mrs. Sparsit ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, putting his 
hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his right hand 
that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, ‘‘ I have 
no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady bom 
and bred, but a devilish sensible woman.” 

Sir,” returned the lady, ‘‘ this is indeed not the first time 
that you have honored me with similar expressions of your 
good opinion.” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 63 1 

Mrs. Sparsit ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, “ I am going 
to astonish you.” 

“Yes, sir?’’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively, and in 
the most tranquil manner possible; She generally wore 
mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those 
mittens. 

“I am going, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “to marry Tom 
Gradgrind’s daughter.” 

“ Yes, sir ? ” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “ I hope you may be 
happy, jVIr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope you may be 
happy, sir ! ” And she said it with such great condescension 
as well as with such great compassion for him, that Bound- 
erby, — far more disconcerted than if she had thrown her work- 
box at the mirror, or swooned on the hearth-rug, — corked up 
the smelling salts tight in his pocket, and thought, “ Now, con- 
found this woman, who could have ever guessed that she 
would take it in this way ! ” 

“ I wish with all my heart, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, in a 
highly superior manner ; somehow she seemed in a moment, 
to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards ; “ that 
you may be in all respects very happy.” 

“Well, ma’am,” returned Bounderby, with some resent- 
ment in his tone : which was clearly lowered, though in spite 
of himself, “ I am obliged to you. I hope I shall be.” 

“ Do you, sir } ” said Mrs. Sparsit, with great affability. 
“ But naturally you do ; of course you do.” 

A very awkward pause on IVIr. Bounderby’s part, suc- 
ceeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occa- 
sionally gave a small cough, which sounded like the cough of 
conscious strength and forbearance. 

“ Well, ma’am,” resumed Bounderby, “ under these cir- 
cumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a character 
like yours to remain here, though you would be very welcome 
here.” 

“ Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account think of that ! ” 
Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly superior 
manner, and a little changed the small cough — coughing now, 
as if the spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be 
coughed down. 

“ However, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “ there are apart- 
ments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as keeper of 
the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise : and if the 
same terms — ” 


//AA^£> TIMES. 


632 


“ I beg your, pardon, sir. You were so good as to promise 
that you would always substitute the phrase, annual compli- 
ment.” 

^‘Well, ma’am, annual compliment. If the same annual 
compliment would be acceptable there, why, I see nothing to 
part us, unless you do.” 

Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “ The proposal is like your- 
self, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank is one that 
I could occupy without descending lower in the social 
scale ” 

‘‘ Why, of course it is,” said Bounderby. “ If it was not, 
ma’am, you don’t suppose that I should olfer it to a lady who 
has moved in the society you have moved in. Not that I 
care for such society, you know ! do.” 

‘‘ Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate.” 

You’ll have your own private apartments, and you’ll have 
your coals and your candles, and all the rest of it, and you’ll 
have your maid to attend upon )^ou, and you’ll have your light 
porter to protect you, and you’ll be what I take the liberty of 
considering precious comfortable,” said Bounderby. 

“ Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, say no more. In yielding 
up my trust here, I shall not be freed from the necessity of eat- 
ing the bread of dependence;” she might have said the sweet- 
bread : for that delicate article in a savory brown sauce was 
her favorite supper ; “ and I would rather receive it from 
your hand than from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your 
offer gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgments for 
past favors. And I hope sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, concluding 
in an impressively compassionate manner, ‘‘ I fondly hope 
that Miss Gradgrind may be all you desire, and deserve ! ” 

Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that position any more. 
It was in vain for Bounderby to bluster or to assert himself in 
any of his explosive ways ; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to have 
compassion on him, as a Victim. She was polite, obliging, 
cheerful, hopeful ; but, the more polite, the more obliging, the 
more cheerful, the more hopeful, the more exemplary alto- 
gether, she ; the forlorner Sacrifice and Victim, he. She had 
that tenderness for his melancholy fate, that his great red 
countenance used to break out into cold perspiration when 
she looked at him. 

Meanwhile the marriage was appointed to be solemnized 
in eight weeks’ time, and Mr. Bounderby went every evening 
to Stone Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made on 


HUSBAXD AND WIFE. 


633 

these occasions in the form of bracelets ; and, on all occa- 
sions during the period of betrothal, took a manufacturing 
aspect. Dresses were made, jewelry was made, cakes and 
gloves were made, settlements were made, and an extensive 
assortment of Facts did appropriate honor to the contract. 
The business was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours did 
not go through any of those rosy performances, which foolish 
poets have ascribed to them at such times ; neither did the 
clocks go any faster, or any slower, than at other seasons. 
The deadly statistical recorder in the Gradgrind observatory 
knocked every second on the head as it was born, and buried 
it with his accustomed regularity. 

So the day came, as all other days come to people who 
will only stick to reason ; and when it came, there were mar- 
ried in the church of the florid wooden legs — that popular 
order of architecture — Josiah Bounderby Esquire of Coke- 
town, to Louisa eldest daughter of Thomas Gradgrind Es- 
quire of Stone Lodge, M. P. for that borough. And when 
they were united in holy matrimony, they went home to 
breakfast at Stone Lodge aforesaid. 

There was an improving party assembled on the auspicious 
occasion, who knew what everything they had to eat and drink 
was made of, and how it was imported or exported, and in 
what quantities, and in what bottoms, whether native or 
foreign, and all about it. The bridesmaids, down to little 
Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual point of view, fit 
helpmates for the calculating boy ; and there was no nonsense 
about any of the company. 

After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed them in the 
following terms : 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Josiah Bounderby of Coke- 
town. Since you have done my wife and myself the honor of 
drinking our healths and happiness, I suppose I must ac- 
knowledge the same ; though, as you all know me, and know 
what I am, and what my extraction was, you won’t expect a 
speech from a man who, when he sees a Post, says ‘ that’s a 
Post,’ and when he sees a pump, says ‘ that’s a Pump,’ and is 
not to be got to call a Post a Pump, or a Pump a Post, or 
either of them a Toothpick. If you want a speech this morn- 
ing, my friend and father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind, is a Mem- 
ber of Parliament, and you know where to get it. I am not 
your man. However, if I feel a little independent when I 
look around this table to-day, and reflect how little I thought 


HARD TIMES. 


634 

of marrying Tom Gradgrind’s daughter when I was a ragged 
street-boy, who never washed his face unless it was at a 
pump, and that not oftener than once a fortnight, I hope I 
may be excused. So, I hope you like my feeling independent ; 
if you don’t, I can’t help it. I do feel independent. Now I 
have mentioned, and you have mentioned, that I am this day 
married to Tom Gradgrind’s daughter. I am very glad to be 
so. It has long been my wish to be so. I have watched her 
bringing up, and I believe she is worthy of me. At the same 
time — not to deceive you — I believe I am worthy of her. So, 
I thank you, on both our parts, for the good-will you have 
shown towards us ; and the best wish I can give the unmar- 
ried part of the present company, is this : I hope every 
bachelor may find as good a wife as I have found. And I 
hope every spinster may find as good a husband as my wife 
has found.” 

Shortly after which oration, as they were going on a nup- 
tial trip to Lyons, in order that Mr. Bounderby might take 
the opportunity of seeing how the Hands got on in those 
parts, and whether they, too, required to be fed with gold 
spoons ; the happy pair departed for the railroad. The bride, 
in passing down stairs, dressed for her journey, found Tom 
waiting for her — flushed, either with his feelings or the vinous 
part of the breakfast. 

“ What a game girl you are, to be such a first-rate sister, 
Loo ! ” whispered Tom. 

She clung to him as she would have clung to some far 
better nature that day, and was a little shaken in her reserved 
composure for the first time. 

“Old Bounderby’s quite ready,” said Tom. “Time’s up. 
Good-by ! I shall be on the look-out for you, when you come 
back. I say, my dear Loo ! An’t it uncommonly jolly 
now ! ” 


BOOK THE SECOND. REAPING. 


CHAPTER I. 

EFFECTS IN THE BANK. 

A SUNNY midsummer day. There was such a thing some- 
times, even in Coketown. 

Seen from a distance in such weather, Coketown lay 
shrouded in a haze of its own, which appeared impervious to 
the sun’s rays. You only knew the town was there, because you 
knew there could have been no such sulky blotch upon the 
prospect without a town. A blur of soot and smoke, now con- 
fusedly tending this way, now that way, now aspiring to the 
vault of Heaven, now murkily creeping along the earth, as the 
wind rose and fell, or changed its quarter ; a dense formless 
jumble, with sheets of cross light in it, that showed nothing 
but masses of darkness — Coketown in the distance was sug- 
gestive of itself, though not a brick of it could be seen. 

The wonder was, it was there at all. It had been ruined 
so often, that it was amazing how it had borne so many shocks. 
Surely there never was such fragile china-ware as that of 
which the millers of Coketown were made. Handle them 
never so lightly, and they fell to pieces with such ease that 
you might suspect them of having been flawed before. They 
were ruined, when they were required to send laboring 
children to school ; they were ruined when inspectors were 
appointed to look into their works ; they were ruined, when 
such inspectors considered it doubtful whether they were quite 
justified in chopping people up with their machinery; they 
were utterly undone, when it was hinted that perhaps they 
need not always make quite so much smoke. Besides Mr. 
Bounderby’s gold spoon which was generallv received in Coke? 

(635) 


HARD TIMES. 


636 

town, another prevalent fiction was very popular there. It 
took the form of a threat. Whenever a Coketowner felt he 
was ill-used — that is to say, whenjdver he was not left enti-elj 
alone, and it was proposed to hold him accountable for the 
consequences of any of his acts — he was sure to come out 
with the awful menace, that he would sooner pitch hi* 
property into the Atlantic.” This had terrified the Home 
Secretary within an inch of his life, on several occasions. 

However, the Coketowners were so patriotic after all, that 
they never had pitched their property into the Atlantic yet, 
but, on the contrary, had been kind enough to take might)^ 
good care of it. So there it was, in the haze yonder ; and if 
increased and multiplied. 

The streets were hot and dusty on the summer day, and 
the sun was so bright that it even shone through the heavy 
vapor drooping over Coketown, and could . not be looked at 
steadily. Stokers emerged from low underground doorways 
into factory yards, and sat on steps, and posts, and palings, 
wiping their swarthy visages, and contemplating coals. The 
whole town seemed to be frying in oil. There was a stifling 
smell of hot oil everywhere. The steam-engines shone with 
it, the dresses of the Hands were soiled with it, the mills 
throughout their many stories oozed and trickled it. The at- 
mosphere of those Fairy palaces was like the breath of the 
simoon ; and their inhabitants, wasting with heat, toiled lan- 
guidly in the desert. But no temperature made the melan- 
choly mad elephants more mad or more sane. Their wea- 
risome heads went ujo and down at the same rate, in hot 
weather and cold, wet weather and dry, fair weather and foul. 
The measured motion of their shadows on the walls, was the 
substitute Coketown had to show for the shadows of rustling 
woods ; while, for the summer hum of insects, it could offer, 
all the year round, from the dawn of Monday to the night of 
Saturday, the whirr of shafts and wheels. 

Drowsily they whirred all through this sunny day, making 
the passenger more sleepy and more hot as he passed the 
humming walls of the mills. Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of 
water, a little cooled the main streets and the shops ; but the 
mills, and the courts and alleys, baked at a fierce heat. Down 
upon the river that was black and thick with dye, some Coke- 
town boys who were at large — a rare sight there — rowed a 
crazy boat, which made a spumous track upon the water as it 
jogged along, while every dip of an oar stirred up vile smells^ 


EFFECTS IN THE BANH 637* 

But the sun itself, however beneficent, generally, was less 
kind to Coketown than hard frost, and rarely looked intently 
into any of its closer regions without engendering more death 
than life. So does the eye of Heaven itself become an evil 
€ye, when incapable or sordid hands are interposed between 
it and the things it looks upon to bless. 

Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment at the Bank, 
on the shadier side of the frying street. Office hours were 
over ; and at that period of the day, in warm weather, she 
usually embellished with her genteel presence, a managerial 
boarding-room over the public office. Her own private sit- 
ting-room was a story higher, at the window of which post 
of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. 
Bounderby, as he came across the road, with the sympathizing 
recognition appropriate to a Victim. He had been married 
now a year ; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released him from 
her determined pity a moment. 

The Bank offered no violence to the wholesome monotony 
of the town. It was another red brick house, with black out- 
side shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two 
white steps, a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle 
full stop. It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby’s house, 
as other houses were from a size to half-a-dozen sizes smaller ; 
in all other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern. 

Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the evening- 
tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed a fem- 
inine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, 
with her needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she 
had a self-laudatory sense of correcting, by her ladylike de- 
portment, the rude business aspect of the place. With this 
impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Spar- 
sit considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fair}*. The 
townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw her 
there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keeping watch over 
the treasures of the mine. 

What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knew as little as 
they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper, secrets that 
if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague per- 
sons (generally, however, people whom she disliked), were 
the chief items in her ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, 
she knew that after office-hours, she reigned supreme over all 
the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with three 
locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light 


I/A7^D TIMES. 


638 

porter laid his head every night, on a truckle bed, that disap- 
peared at cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over 
certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from com- 
munication with the predatory world ; and over the relics of 
the current day’s work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out 
pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper torn so small, 
that nothing interesting could ever be cleciphered on them 
when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a 
little armory of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful 
order above one of the official chimney-pieces ; and over that 
respectable tradition never to be separated from a place of 
business claiming to be wealthy — a row of fire-buckets — ves- 
sels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion, 
but observed to exercise, a fine moral influence, almost equal 
to bullion, on most beholders. 

A deaf serving-woman and the light porter completed Mrs^ 
Sparsit’s empire. The deaf serving-woman was rumored to be 
wealthy ; and a saying had for years gone about among the 
lower orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some 
night when the Bank was shut, for the sake of her money. It 
was generally considered, indeed, that she had been due some 
time, and ought to have fallen long ago ; but she had kept her 
life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that 
occasioned much offence and disappointment. 

Mrs. Sparsit’s tea was just set for her on a pert little table, 
with its tripod of legs in an attitude, which she insinuated 
after office-hours, into the company of the stern, leathern- 
hopped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the 
room. The light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling 
his forehead as a form of homage. 

Thank you, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“ Thank ma’am,” returned the light porter. He was 
a very light porter indeed ; as light as in the days when he 
blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty. 

All is shut up, Bitzer ? ” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“All is shut up, ma’am.” 

“ And what,” said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out her tea, “ is 
.the news of the day Anything.^ ” 

“ Well, ma’am, I can’t say that I have heard anything par- 
ticular. Our people are a bad lot, ma’am ; but that is no 
news, unfortunately.” 

“ What are the restless wretches doing now ? ” asked Mrs. 
Sparsit. 


EFFECTS IN THE BANK, 639 

Merely going on in the old way, ma’am. Uniting, and 
leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another.” 

It is much to be regretted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, making 
her nose more Roman and her eyes more Coriolanian in the 
strength of her severity, ‘‘ that the united masters allow of 
any such class-combinations.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Bitzer. 

‘‘ Being united themselves, they ought one and all to set 
their faces against employing any man who is united with any 
other man,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

‘‘They have done that, ma’am,” returned Bitzer; “but it 
rather fell through, ma’am.” 

“ I do not pretend to understand these things,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, with dignity, “ my lot having been signally cast in a 
widely different sphere ; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Bowler, being 
also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only 
know that these people must be conquered, and that it’s high 
time it was done, once for all.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of 
great respect for Mrs. Sparsit’s oracular authority. “You 
couldn’t put it clearer, I am sure, ma’am.” 

As this was his usual hour for having a little confidential 
chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught her eye 
and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a 
pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while 
that lady went on with her tea, glancing through the open win- 
dow, down into the street. 

“ Has it been a busy day, Bitzer ? ” asked Mrs. Sparsit. 

“ Not a very busy day, my lady. About an average day.” 
He now and then slided into my lady, instead of ma’am, as an 
involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit’s personal dignity 
and claims to reverence. 

“The clerks,” said Mrs. Sparsit, carefully brushing an im- 
perceptible crumb of bread and butter from her left hand 
mitten, “ are trustworthy, punctual, and industrious, '^of 
course ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am, pretty fair, ma’am. With the usual excep- 
tion.” f 

He held the respectable office of general spy and informer 
in the establishment, for which volunteer service he received 
a present at Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. He 
had grown into an extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent 
young man, who was safe to rise in the world. His mind was 


//A/?D TIMES. 


640 

SO exactly regulated, that he had no affections or passions. 
All his proceedings were the result of the nicest and coldest 
calculation ; and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit 
habitually observed of him, that he was a young man of the 
steadiest principle she had ever known. Having satisfied him- 
self, on his father’s death, that his mother had a right of 
settlement in Coketown, this excellent young economist had 
asserted that right for her with such a steadfast adherence to 
the principle of the case, that she had been shut up in the 
workhouse ever since. It must be admitted that he allowed 
her half a pound of tea a year, which was weak in him : first, 
because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperize the 
recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable trans- 
action in that commodity would have been to buy it for as 
little as he could possibly give, and sell it for as much as he 
could possibly get ; it having been clearly ascertained by 
philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man 
— not a part of man’s duty, but the whole. 

“ Pretty fair, ma’am. With the usual exception, ma’am,’’ 
repeated Bitzer. 

“ Ah — h ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over her 
tea-cup, and taking a long gulp. 

Mr. Thomas, ma’am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very much, 
ma’am, I don’t like his ways at all.” 

“ Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, 
“ do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting 
names 'I ” 

I beg your pardon, ma’am. It’s quite true that you 
did object to names being used, and they’re always best 
avoided.” 

Please to remember that I have a charge here,” said 
Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. I hold a trust here, 
Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. 
Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that 
he would ever become my patron, making me an annual com- 
pliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From Mr. 
Bounderby I have received every acknowledgment of my so- 
cial station, and every recognition of my family descent, that 
I could possibly expect. More, far more. Therefore, to my 
patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not consider, I 
will not consider, I cannot consider,” said Mrs. Sparsit, with a 
most extensive stock on hand of honor and morality, that I 
should be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mem 


EFFECTS IN THE BANK. 641 

tioned under this roof, that are unfortunately — most unfor- 
tunately — no doubt of that — connected with his.” 

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged 
pardon. 

No, Bitzer,” continued Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘ say an individual, 
and I will hear you ; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse 
me.” 

“ With the usual exception, ma’am,” said Bitzer, trying 
back, ‘‘ of an individual.” 

‘‘ Ah — h ! ” Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the 
shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as 
taking up the conversation again at the point where it had 
been interrupted. 

An individual, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “ has never been 
what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. 
He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his 
salt, ma’am. He wouldn’t get it either, if he hadn’t a friend 
and relation at court, ma’am ! ” 

Ah — h ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy 
shake of her head. 

“ I only hope, ma’am,” pursued Bitzer, that his friend 
and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying 
on. Otherwise, ma’am, we know out of whose pocket that 
money comes.” 

“ Ah — h ! ” sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another nrelan- 
choly shake of her head. 

“ He is to be pitied, ma’am. The last party I have alluded 
to, is to be pitied, ma’am,” said Bitzer. 

“ Yes, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit. I have always pitied 
the delusion, always.’^ 

“ As to an individual, ma’am,” said Bitzer, dropping his 
voice and drawing nearer, he is as improvident as any of the 
people in this town. And you know what their improvidence 
is, ma’am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady 
of your eminence does.” - . 

‘‘They would do well,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “to take 
example by you, Bitzer.” ' 

“ Thank you, ma’am. But, since you do refer to me, now 
look at me, ma’am. I have put by a little, ma’am, already. 
That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma’am : I never 
touch it. I don’t even go the length of my wages, though 
they’re not high, ma’am. Why can’t they do as I have done, 
ma’am ? What one person can do, another can do.” 


642 


HARD TIMES. 


This again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any 
capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of 
sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand 
nearest Hands didn’t each make sixty thousand pounds out 
of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for 
not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. 
Why don’t you go and do it ? 

“ As to their wanting recreations, ma’am,” said Bitzer^ 
It’s stuff and nonsense, /don’t want recreations. I never 
did, and I never shall ; I don’t like ’em. As to their com- 
bining together ; there are many of them, I have no doubt, 
that by watching and informing upon one another could earn 
a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and im- 
prove their livelihood. Then, why don’t they improve it, 
ma’am ! It’s the first consideration of a rational creature, 
and it’s what they pretend to want.” 

Pretend indeed ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma’am, till it be- 
comes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families,” 
said Bitzer. Why look at me, ma’am ! I don’t want a wife 
and family. Why should they ? ” 

“ Because they are improvident,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

^Wes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, ‘‘that’s where it is. If 
they were more provident and less perverse, ma’am, what 
would they do ? They would say, ‘ While my hat covers my 
family,’ or ‘while my bonnet covers my family,’ — as the case 
might be ma’am — ‘ I have only one to feed, and that’s the 
person I most like to feed.’ ” 

“To be sure,” assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead 
again, in return for the favor of Mrs. Sparsit’s improving con- 
versation. “ Would you wish a little more hot water, ma’am, 
or is there anything else that I could fetch you ? ” 

“ Nothing just now, Bitzer.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am. I shouldn’t wish to disturb you at 
your meals, ma’am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality 
for it,” said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street 
from where he stood ; “ but there’s a gentleman been looking up 
here for a minute or so, ma’am, and he has come across as if 
he was going to knock. That is his knock, ma’am, no doubt.” 

He stepped to the window ; and looking out, and drawing 
in his head again, confirmed himself with, “ Yes, ma’am. 
Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma’am } ” 


EFFECTS IN THE BANK. 643 

“ I don’t know who it can be,” said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping 
her mouth and arranging her mittens. 

‘‘ A stranger, ma'am, evidently.” 

What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of 
the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which 
he is too late, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘ but I hold 
a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I 
will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty 
I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, 
Bitzer.” 

Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit’s mag- 
nanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light 
porter hastened down to open the door ; while Mrs. Sparsit 
took the precaution of concealing her little table, wi^ all its 
appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up 
stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater 
dignity. 

“ If you please, ma’am, the gentleman would wish to see 
you,” said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit’s key- 
bole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by 
touching up her cap, took her classical features down stairs 
again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman 
matron going outside the city walls to treat with arv invading 
general. 

The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then 
engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this 
impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whist- 
ling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still 
on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising 
from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. 
For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough 
gentleman, made to the model of the time ; weaiy^ of every- 
thing, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. 

I believe, sir,” quoth Mrs. Sparsit, “ you wished to see 

me.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, turning and removing his 
hat ; “ pray excuse me.” 

“ Humph ! ” thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately 
bend. Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good 
teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold 
eyes.” All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way 
— like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water—* 
merely in dipping down and coming up again. 


644 


TIMES. 


Please to be seated, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

‘‘ Thank you. Allow me.” He placed a chair for her, 
but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. 

I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage — • 
very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van — and 
strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will 
you allow me to ask you if it’s always as black as this ? ” 

“ In general much blacker,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her 
uncompromising way. 

Is it possible ! Excuse me : you are not a native, 1 
think ? ” 

No, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. It was once my good 
or ill fortune, as it may be — before I became a widow — to 
move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler.” 

“ Beg your pardon, really ! ” said the stranger. Was—? ” 

Mrs. Sparsit reported, ‘‘A Powler.” 

“ Powler Family,” said the stranger, after reflecting a few 
moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger 
seemed a little more fatigued than before. 

“You must be very much bored here ? ” was the inference 
he drew from the communication. 

“ I am the servant of circumstances, sir,” said Mrs. Spar- 
sit, “ and I have long adapted myself to the governing power 
of my life.” 

“Very philosophical,” returned the stranger, “ and very 
exemplary and laudable, and — ” It seemed to be scarcely 
worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his| 
watch-chain wearily. ; 

“ May I be permitted to ask, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “ to 
what I am indebted for the favor of — ” 

“ Assuredly,” said the stranger. “ Much obliged to you 
for reminding me. I am the bearer of a letter of introduction ^ 
to Mr. Bounderby the banker. Walking through this extraor- 
dinary black town, while they were getting dinner ready at 
the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met ; one of the working 
people ; who appeared to have been taking a shower-bath of 
something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw material : — 

Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head. 

“ — Raw material — where Mr. Bounderby, the banker, 
might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word 
Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, 
that Mr. Bounderby the Banker, does not reside in the edifice 
in which I have the honor of offering this explanation? ” 


EFFECTS IN THE BANK. 


645 


‘‘No, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “he does not.” 

“ Thank you. I had no intention of delivering my letter 
at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on to the 
Bank to kill time, and having the good-fortune to observe at 
the window,” towards which he languidly waved his hand, 
then slightly bowed, “ a lady of a very superior and agreeable 
appearance, I considered that I could not do better than take 
the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the 
Banker does live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suit- 
able apologies, to do.” 

The inattention and indolence of his manner were suffi- 
ciently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit’s thinking, by a certain gal- 
lartry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, 
for instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and 
yet lazily bending over her, as if he acknowledged an attrac- 
tior. in her that made her charming — in her way. 

“ Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially must 
be,’ said the stranger, whose lightness and smoothness of 
spech were pleasant likewise ; suggesting matter far more 
sensible and humorous than it ever contained — which was 
peihaps a shrewd device of the founder of this numerous sect, 
wh)soever may have been that great man : “ therefore I may 
objerve that my letter — here it is — is from the member of this 
place — Gradgrind — whom I have had the pleasure of know- 
ing in London.” 

Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that such 
confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bound- 
erby’s address, with all needful clues and directions in aid. 

“ Thousand thanks,” said the stranger. “Of course you 
know the Banker well ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. “In my dependent 
relation towards him, I have known him ten years.” 

“ Quite an eternity ! I think he married Gradgrind’s 
daughter ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing her 
mouth, “ he had that — honor.” 

“ The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. “Yr she ? ” 

“ Excuse my impertinent curiosity,” pursued the stranger, 
fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit’s eyebrows, with a propitiatory 
air, “ but you know the family, and know the world. I am 
about to know the family, and may have much to do with 
th^m, Is the lady so very alarming ? Her father gives hei 


HARD TIMES, 


646 

such a portentously hard-headed reputation, that I have a 
burning desire to know. Is she -absolutely unapproachable ? 
Repellantly and stunningly clever ! I see, by your meaning 
smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious 
soul. As to age, now. Forty! Five and thirty? ’’ 

Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. A chit,” said she. 
Not twenty when she was married.” 

“ I give you my honor, Mrs. Powler,” returned the 
stranger, deatching himself from the table, that I never 
was so astonished in my life I ” 

It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost extent of 
his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his informant 
for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the sur- 
prise in his mind all the time. I assure you, Mrs. Powlej,” 
he then said, much exhausted, ‘‘ that the father’s manner |Dre- 
pared me for a grim and stony maturity. I am obliged to y()u, 
of all things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray excise 
my intrusion. Many thanks. Good-day I ” 

He bowed himself out ; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in tne 
window curtain, saw him languishing down the street on the 
shady side of the way, observed of all the town. 

‘‘ What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer ? ” she ask^d 
the light porter, when he came to take away. 

“Spends a^deal of money on his dress, ma’am.” 

“ It must be admitted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “ that it’s very 
tasteful.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, “if that’s worth the 
money.” 

“ Besides which, ma’am,” resumed Bitzer, .while he was 
polishing the table, “ he looks to me as if he gamed.” 

“ It’s immoral to game,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

“ It’s ridiculous, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “ because the 
chances are against the players.” 

Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit from 
working, or whether it was that her hand was out, she did no 
work that night. She sat at the window, when the sun began 
to sink behind the smoke ; she sat there, when the smoke was 
burning red, when the color faded from it, when darkness 
seemed to rise slowly out of the ground, and creep upward, 
upward, up to the house-tops,, up the church steeple, up to 
the summits of the factory chimneys, up to the sky. Without 
a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at the window, with her 
hands before her, not thinking much of the sounds of even- 


MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE. 


647 

ing ; the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, the rumbling 
of wheels, the steps and voices of passengers, the shrill street 
cries, the clogs upon the pavement when it was their hour for 
going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters. Not until the 
light porter announced that her nocturnal sweetbread was 
ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself from her reverie, and 
convey her dense black eyebrows — by that time creased with 
meditation, as if they needed ironing out — up stairs. 

‘‘O, you Fool ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit, when she was alone at 
her supper. Whom she meant, she did not say ; but she could 
scarcely have meant the sweetbread. 


CHAPTER II. 

MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE. 

The Gradgrind party wanted assistance in cutting the 
throats of the Graces. They went about recruiting; and 
where could they enlist recruits more hopefully, than among 
the fine gentlemen who, having found out everything to be 
worth nothing, were equally ready for anything ? 

Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to this sub- 
lime height were attractive to many of the Gradgrind school. 
They liked fine gentlemen ; they pretended that they did not, 
but they did. They became exhausted in imitation of them ; 
and they yaw-yawed in their speech like them ; and they 
served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations of 
political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. 
There never before was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid 
race as was thus produced. 

Among the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to the 
Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family and a bet- 
ter appearance, with a happy turn of humor which had told 
immensely with the House of Commons on the occasion of 
his entertaining it with his (and the Board of Directors’) view 
of a railway accident, in which the most careful officers ever 
known, employed by the most liberal managers ever heard of, 
assisted by the finest mechanical contrivances ever devised, 
the whole in action on the best line ever constructed, had 
killed five people and wounded thirty-two, by a casualty with- 


648 


//A/^D TIMES, 


out which the excellence of the whole system would have 
been positively incomplete. Among the slain was a cow, and 
among the scattered articles unowned, a widow’s cap. And the 
honorable member had so tickled the House (which has a del- 
icate sense of humor) by putting the cap on the cow, that it 
became impatient of any serious reference to the Coroner’s 
Inquest, and brought the railway off with Cheers and Laughter. 

Now, this gentleman had a younger brother of still better 
appearance than himself, who had tried life as a Cornet of 
Dragoons, and found it a bore ; and had afterwards tried it 
in the train of an English minister abroad, and found it a 
bore ; and had then strolled to Jerusalem, and got bored 
there ; and had then gone yachting about the world, and got 
bored everywhere. To whom this honorable and jocular 
member fraternally said one day, Jem, there’s a good open- 
ing among the hard Fact fellows, and they want men. I 
wonder you don’t go in for statistics.” Jem, rather taken by 
the novelty of the idea, and very hard up for a change, was 
as ready to go in ” for statistics as for anything else. So, he 
went in. He coached himself up with a blue-book or two ; 
and his brother put it about among the hard Fact fellows, and 
said, “ If you want to bring in, for any place, a handsome dog 
who can make you a devilish good speech, look after my 
brother Jem, for he’s your man.” After a few dashes in the 
public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and a council of political 
sages approved of Jem, and it was resolved to send him down 
to Coketown, to become known there and in the neighbor- 
hood. Hence the letter Jem had last night shown to Mrs. 
Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby now held in his hand ; super- 
scribed, ‘‘Josiah Bounderby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown. 
Specially to introduce James Harthouse, Esquire. Thomas 
Gradgrind.” 

Within an hour of the receipt of this dispatch and Mr. 
James Harthouse’s card, Mr. Bounderby put on his hat and 
went down to the Hotel. There he found Mr. James Hart- 
house looking out of window, in a state of mind so disconso- 
late, that he was already half-disposed to “ go in ” for some- 
thing else. 

My name, sir,” said his visitor, “ is Josiah Bounderby^ 
of Coketown.” 

Mr. James Harthouse was very happy indeed (though he 
scarcely looked so), to have a pleasure he had long expected 
“ Coketown, sir,” said Bounderby, obstinately taking a 


MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE. 


649 

chair, is not the kind of place you have been accustomed to. 
Therefore if you will allow me — or whether you will or not, 
for I am a plain man — I’ll tell you something about it before 
we go any further.” 

Mr. Harthouse would be charmed. 

Don’t be too sure of that,” said Bounderby. ‘‘ I don’t 
promise it. First of all, you see our smoke. That’s meat 
and drink to us. It’s the healthiest thing in the world in all 
respects, and particularly for the lungs. If you are one of 
those who want us to consume it, I differ from you. We are 
not going to wear the bottoms of our boilers out any faster 
than we wear ’em out now, for all the humbugging sentiment 
in Great Britain and Ireland.” 

Byway of going in ” to the fullest extent, Mr. Harthouse 
rejoined, ‘‘ Mr. Bounderby, I assure you I am entirely and 
completely of your way of thinking. On conviction.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” said Bounderby. Now, you 
have heard a lot of talk about the work in our mills, no doubt. 
You have Very good. I’ll state the fact of it to you. It’s 
the pleasantest work there is, and it’s the lightest work there 
is, and it’s the best paid work there is. More than that, we 
couldn’t improve the mills themselves, unless we laid down 
Turkey carpets on the floors. Which we’re not a-going to do.” 

“ Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right.” 

“ Lastly,” said Bounderby, ‘‘as to our Hands. There’s 
not a Hand in this town, sir, man, woman, or child, but has 
one ultimate object in life. That object is, to be fed on turtle 
soup and venison with a gold spoon. Now, they’re not a-going 
— none of ’em — ever to be fed on turtle soup and venison with 
a gold spoon. And now you know the place.” 

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the highest degree 
instructed and refreshed, by this condensed epitome of the 
whole Coketown question. 

“Why, you see,” , replied Mr. Bounderby, “it suits my 
disposition to have a full understanding with a man, partic- 
ularly with a public man, when I make his acquaintance. I. 
have only one thing more to say to you, Mr. Harthouse,! 
before assuring you of the pleasure with which I shall respond, 
to the utmost of my poor ability, to my friend Tom Grad- 
grind’s letter of introduction. You are a man of family. 
Don’t you deceive yourself by supposing for a moment that I 
am a man of family. I am a bit of dirty riff-raff, and a gen- 
uine scrap of tag, rag, and bobtail.” 

2b 


650 


TIMES. 


ll anything could have exalted Jem’s interest in Mr. 
Bounderby, it would have been this very circumstance. Or^ 
so he told him. 

‘‘ So now,” said Bounderby, “ we may shake hands on 
equal terms. I say, equal terms, because although I know 
what I am, and the exact depth of the gutter I have lifted my- 
self out of, better than any man does, I am as proud as you 
are. I am just as proud as you are. Having now asserted 
my independence in a proper manner, I may come to how do 
you find yourself, and I hope you’re pretty well.” 

The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to understand as 
they shook hands, for the salubrious air of Coketown. Mr. 
Bounderby received the answer with favor. 

“ Perhaps you know,” said he, “ or perhaps you don’t 
know, I married Tom Gradgrind’s daughter. If you have 
nothing better to do than to walk up town with me, I shall be 
glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind’s daughter.” 

“ Mr. Bounderby,” said Jem, “you anticipate my dearest 
wishes.” 

They went out without further discourse ; and Mr. Bound- 
erby piloted the new acquaintance who so strongly contrasted 
with him, to the private red brick dwelling, with the black 
outside shutters, the green inside blinds, and the black street 
door up the two white steps. In the drawing-room of which 
mansion, there presently entered to them the most remarkable 
girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen. She was so con- 
strained, and yet so careless ; so reserved, and yet so watch- 
ful ; so cold and proud, and yet so sensitively ashamed of her 
husband’s braggart humility — from which she shrunk as if 
every example of it were a cut or a blow ; that it was quite a 
new sensation to observe her. In face she was no less re- 
markable than in manner. Her features were handsome ; but 
their natural play was so locked up, that it seemed impossible 
to guess at their genuine expression. Utterly indifferent, 
perfectly self-reliant, never at a loss, and yet never at her 
ease, with her figure in company with them there, and her 
mind apparently quite alone — it was of no use “ going in ” 
yet awhile to comprehend this girl, for she baffled all pene- 
tration. 

From the mistress of the house, the visitor glanced to the 
house itself. There was no mute sign of a woman in the 
room. No graceful little adornment, no fanciful little device, 
however trival. anywhere expressed her influence. Cheerless 


MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE. 


651 

jind comfortless, boastfully and doggedly rich, there the room 
stared at its present occupants, unsoftened and unrelieved by' 
the least trace of any womanly occupation. As Mr. Bound- 
erby stood in the midst of his household gods, so those un- 
relenting divinities occupied their places around Mr. Bounder- 
by, and they were worthy of one another, and well matched. 

‘‘ This, sir,’^ said Bounderby, is my wife, Mrs. Bounderby : 
Tom Gradgrind’s eldest daughter. Loo, Mr. James Hart- 
house. Mr. Harthouse has joined your father’s muster-roll. 
If he is not Tom Gradgrind’s colleague before long, I believe 
we shall at least hear of him in connection with one of our 
neighboring towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that my 
wife is my junior. I don’t know what she saw in me to marry 
me, but she saw something in me, I suppose, or she wouldn’t 
have married me. She has lots of expensive knowledge, sir,, 
political and otherwise. If you want to cram for anything, I 
should be troubled to recommend you to a better adviser than 
Loo Bounderby.” 

To a more agreeable adviser, or one from whom he would 
be more likely to learn, Mr. Harthouse could never be recom- 
mended. 

“ Come ! ” said his host. “ If you’re in the complimentary 
line, you’ll get on here, for you’ll meet with no competition. 
I have never been in the way of learning compliments myself,, 
and I don’t profess to understand the art of paying ’em. In 
fact, despise ’em. But, your bringing-up was different from 
mine ; mine was a real thing, by George ! You’re a gentleman, 
and I don’t pretend to be one. I am Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown, and that’s enough for me. However, though I am 
not influenced by manners and station. Loo Bounderby may be. 
She hadn’t my advantages — disadvantages you would call ’em,, 
but I call ’em advantages — so you’ll not waste your power, I 
dare say.” 

Mr. Bounderby,” said Jem, turning with a smile to Louisa, 
^Hs a noble animal in a comparatively natural state, quite 
free from the harness in which a conventional hack like myself 
works.” 

You respect Mr. Bounderby very much,” she quietly re- 
turned. “ It is natural that you should.” 

He was disgracefully thrown out, for a gentleman who had 
seen so much of the world, and thought, “ Now, how am I to 
take this } ” 

You are going to devote yourself, as I gather from what 


//AA^n TIMES. 


■^52 

Mr. Bounderby has said, to the service of your country. 
You have made up your mind,” said Louisa, still standing be- 
fore him where she had first stopped — in all the singular con- 
trariety of her self-possession, and her being obviously very 
ill at. ease — to show the nation the way out of all its diffi- 
culties.” 

•‘Mrs. Bounderby,” he returned laughing, “upon my 
honor, no. I will make no such pretence to you. I have 
seen a little, here and there, up and down ; I have found it 
all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and as some con- 
fess they have, and some do not j and I am going in for 
your respected father’s opinions — really because I have no 
choice of opinions, and may as well back them as anything 
else.” 

“ Have you none of your own ? ” asked Louisa. 

“ I have not so much as the slightest predilection left. I 
assure you I attach not the least importance to any opinions. 
The result of the varieties of boredom I have undergone, is 
a conviction (unless conviction is too industrious a word for 
the lazy sentiment I entertain on the subject), that any set of 
ideas will do just as much good as any other set, and just as 
much harm as any other set. There’s an English family with 
a charming Italian motto. What will be, will be. It’s the 
only truth going ! ” 

This vicious assumption of honesty in dishonesty — a vice 
so dangerous, so deadly, and so common — seemed, he ob- 
served, a little to impress her in his favor. He followed up 
the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest manner : a manner 
to which she might attach as much or as little meaning as she 
pleased : “ The side that can prove anything in a line of units, 
tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me 
to afford the most fun, and to give a man the best chance. 
I am quite as much attached to it as if I believed it. I 
quite ready to go in for it, to the same extent as if I be- 
lieved it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did be- 
lieve it ! ” 

“ You are a singular politician,” said Louisa. 

“ Pardon me ; I have not even that merit. We are the 
largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if 
we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed to- 
gether.” 

Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in 
silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the 


MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE. 


family dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Hart- 
house in the meantime on a round of visits to the voting and 
interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The 
round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a 
discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though 
with a considerable accession of boredom. 

In the evening he found the dinner-table laid for four, but 
they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for 
Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavor of the hap’orth of stewed 
eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old ; and 
also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust,, 
with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise 
entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calcula- 
tion that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three 
horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These reci- 
tals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with “charming!’^ 
every now and then ; and they probably would have decided 
him to ‘‘go in’’ for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had 
he been less curious respecting Louisa. 

“ Is there nothing,” he thought, glancing at her as she sat 
at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and 
slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked mis- 
placed ; “ is there nothing that will move that face } ” 

Yes ! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in 
an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the 
door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. 

A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have 
though/" so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at 
her impassive face. She put out her hand — a pretty little soft 
hand ; and her fingers closed upon her brothers, as 4f she 
•would have carried them to her lips. 

“ Ay, ay ? ” thought the visitor. “ This whelp is the only 
creature she cares for. So, so ! ” 

The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appel- 
lation was not flattering, but not unmerited. 

“ When I was your age, young Tom,” said Bounderby, “ I 
was punctual, or I got no dinner ! ” 

“When you were my age,” returned Tom, “you hadn’t a 
wrong balance to get right, and hadn’t to dress afterwards.” 
“Never mind that now,” said Bounderby. 

“ Well, then,” grumbled Tom. “ Don’t begin with me.” 
“Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this 
under-strain as it went on ; “ your brother’s ^ace is quite famil- 


HARD TIMES. 


^'S4 

iar to me. Can I have seen him abroad ? Or at some public 
school, perhaps ? ” 

“ No,’^ she returned, quite interested, “he has never been 
abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I 
am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad.’^ 

“No such luck, sir,’’ said Tom. 

There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he 
was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even 
to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of 
her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. 
“ So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has 
ever cared for,” thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over 
and over. “ So much the more. So much the more.” 

Both in his sister’s presence, and after she had left the 
room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. 
Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observa- 
tion of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shut- 
ting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic com- 
munications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the 
course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. 
At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little 
doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp im- 
mediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with 
him to escort him thither. 


CHAPTER HI. 

if 

THE WHELP. 

It was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had 
been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural 
restraint, should be a hypocrite ; but it was certainly the case 
with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who 
had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive 
minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself ; but 
so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a 
young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his 
cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the 
form of grovelling sensualities ; but such a monster, beyond 
all doubt, was Tom. 


THE WHELP, 655 

Do you smoke?’’ asked Mr. James Harthouse, when 
they came to the hotel. 

“ I believe you ! ” said Tom. 

He could do no less than ask Tom up: and Tom could do 
no less than go up. What with a cooling drink adapted to 
the weather, but not so weak as cool ; and what with a rarer 
tobacco than was to be bought in those parts • Tom was soon 
in a highly free and easy state at his end of the sofa, and 
more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the other 
end. 

Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking a 
little while, and took an observation of his friend. He don’t 
seem to care about his dress,” thought Tom,, and yet how 
capitally he does it. What an easy swell he is ! ” 

Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom’s eye, re- 
marked that he drank nothing, and filled his glass with his 
own negligent hand. 

“ Thank’ee,” said Tom. Thank’ee. Well, Mr. Hart- 
house, I hope you have had about a dose of old Bounderby 
to-night.” Tom said this with one eye shut up again, and 
looking over his glass knowingly, at his entertainer. 

“ A very good fellow indeed ! ” seturned Mr. James Hart- 
house. 

“You think so, don’t you ?” said Tom. And shut up his 
eye again. 

Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising from his end of 
the sofa, and lounging with his back against the chimney- 
piece, so that he stood before the empty fire-grate as he 
smoked, in front of Tom and looking down at him, observ^ed : 

“ What a comical brother-in-law you are ! ” 

“ What a comical brother-in-law old Bounderby is, I think 
you mean,” said Tom. 

“You are a piece of caustic, Tom,” retorted Mr. James 
Harthouse. 

There was something so very agreeable in being so inti- 
mate with such a waistcoat ; in being called Tom, in such an 
intimate way, by such a voice ; in being on such off-hand 
terms so soon with such a pair of whiskers ; that Tom was 
uncommonly pleased with himself. 

“Oh! I don’t care for old Bounderby,” said he, “if you 
mean that. I have always called old Bounderby by the same 
name when I have talked about him, and I have always thought 
of him in the same way, I am not going to begin to be polite 


HARD TIMES. 


656 

now, about old Bounderby. It would be rather late in the 
day.” 

Don’t mind me,” returned James ; “but take care when 
his wife is by, you know.” 

“His wife.^” said Tom. “My sister Loo? O yes!” 
And he laughed, and took a little more of the cooling drink. 

James Harthouse continued to lounge in the same place 
and attitude, smoking his cigar in his own easy way, and look- 
ing pleasantly at the whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind 
of agreeable demon who had only to hover over him, and he 
must give up his whole soul if required. It certainly did seem 
that the whelp yielded to this influence. He looked at his com- 
panion sneakingly, he looked at him admiringly, he looked at 
him boldly, and put up one leg on the sofa. 

“ My sister Loo ? ” said Tom. “ She never cared for old 
Bounderby.” 

“That’s the past tense, Tom,” returned Mr. James Hart- 
house, striking the ash from his cigar with his little finger. 
“ We are in the present tense, now.” 

, “ Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative mood, present 
tense. First person singular, I do not care ; second person 
singular, thou dost not care; third person singular, she does 
not care,” returned Tom. 

“Good! Very quaint!” said his friend. “Though you 
don’t mean it.” 

“ But I do mean it,” cried Tom. “ Upon my honor ! Why, 
you won’t tell me, Mr. Harthouse, that you really suppose my 
sister Loo does care for old Bounderby.” 

“ My dear fellow,” returned the other, “ what am I bound 
to suppose, when I find two married people living in harmony 
and happiness ? ” 

Tom had by this time got both his legs on the sofa. If 
his second leg had not been already there when he was called 
a dear fellow, he would have put it up at that great stage of 
the conversation. Feeling it necessary to do something then, 
he stretched himself out at greater length, and, reclining with 
the back of his head on the end of the sofa, and smoking with 
an infinite assumption of negligence, turned his common face, 
and not too sober eyes, towards the face looking down upon 
him so carelessly yet so potently. 

“ You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom, 
and therefore, you needn’t be surprised that Loo married 
old Bounderby. She never had a lover, and the governor 
proposed old Bounderby, and she took him.” 


THE WHELP. 


657 


‘‘ Very dutiful in your interesting sister,” said Mr. Jainet«i 
Harthouse. 

‘‘ Yes, but she wouldn’t have been as dutiful, and it would 
not have come off as easily,” returned the whelp, ‘‘ if it hadn’t 
been for me.” 

The tempter merely lifted his eyebrows ; but the whelp was 
obliged to go on. 

“ I persuaded her,” he said, with an edifying air of 
superiority. “ I was stuck into old Bounderby’s bank (where 
I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get into scrapes 
there, if she put old Bounderby’s pipe out ; so I told her my 
wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for 
me. It was very game of her, wasn’t it 'I ” 

“ It was charming, Tom ! ” 

Not that it was altogether so important to her as it was 
to me,” continued Tom coolly, ‘‘because my liberty and com- 
fort, and perhaps my getting on, depended on it ; and she had 
no other lover, and staying at home was like staying in jail — 
especially when I was gone. It wasn’t as if she gave up 
another lover for old Bounderby ; but still it was a good thing 
in her.” 

“ Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly.” 

“ Oh,” returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage, “ she’s 
a regular girl. A girl can get on anywhere. She has settled 
down to the life, and she don’t mind. It does just as well as 
another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she’s not a common 
sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and 
think — as I have often known her sit and watch the fire — for 
an hour at a stretch.” 

“ Ay, ay ? Has resources of her own,” said Harthouse, 
smoking quietly. 

“ Not so much of that as you may suppose,” returned 
Tom j “for our governor had her crammed with all sorts of 
dry bones and sawdust. It’s his system.” 

“ Formed his daughter on his own model ? ” suggested 
Harthouse. 

“ His daughter ? Ah ! and everybody else. Why he 
formed Me that way ! ” said Tom. 

“ Impossible !” 

“ He did, though,” said Tom, shaking his head. “ I 
mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and 
went to old Bounderby’s, I was as fiat as a warming-pan, and 
knew no more about life, than any oyster does.” 


flARD TIMES. 


658 

Come, Tom ! I can hardly believe that. A joke’s x 
joke.’^ 

‘‘ Upon my soul ! ” said the whelp. I am serious ; I am 
indeed !” He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a 
little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone. 

Oh ! I have picked up a little since. I don’t deny that. But 
I have done it myself ; no thanks to the governor.” 

‘‘ And your intelligent sister ?” 

My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used 
to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, 
that girls usually fall back upon ; and I don’t see how she is 
to have got over that since. But she don’t mind,” he saga- 
ciously added, puffing at his cigar again. “ Girls can always 
get on, somehow.” 

Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bound- 
crby’s address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to 
entertain great admiration for your sister,” observed Mr. 
James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the 
cigar he had now smoked out. 

Mother Sparsit ! ” said Tom. ^‘Whatl you have seen 
her already, have you 

His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, 
to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) 
with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times 
wjth his finger. 

Mother Sparsit’s feeling for Loo is more than admiration, 
I should think,” said Tom. “ Say affection and devotion. 
Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was 
a bachelor. Oh no ! ” 

These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a 
giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete 
oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy 
dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice 
saying : Come it’s late. Be off ! ” 

“ Well ! ” he said, scrambling from the sofa. “ I must 
take my leave of you though. I say. Yours is very good to- 
bacco. But it’s too mild.” 

“ Yes, it’s too mild,” returned his entertainer. 

‘‘ Yes, it’s ridiculously mild,” said Tom. ‘AVhere’s the 
door ! Good-night ! ” 

He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter 
through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble and diffi- 
culty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood 


MEN AND BROTHERS. 


659 

alone. He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet 
free from an impression of the presence and influence of his 
new friend — as if he were lounging somewhere in the air, in 
the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same 
look. 

The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had had 
any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less 
of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short 
on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river 
that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good 
and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy 
waters.' 


CHAPTER IV, 

MEN AND BROTHERS. 

“ Oh my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coke- 
town ! Oh my friends and fellow-countrymen, the slaves of 
an iron-handed and a grinding despotism ! Oh my friends 
and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow-men ! I 
tell you that the hour is come, when we must rally round one 
another as One united power, and crumble into dust the 
oppressors that too long have battened upon the plunder of 
our families, upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labor of 
our hands, upon the strength of our sinews, upon the God- 
created glorious rights of Humanity, and upon the holy and 
eternal privileges of Brotherhood ! ” 

“ Good ! ” “ Hear, hear, hear ! ” Hurrah ! ” and other 

cries, arose in many voices from various parts of the densely 
crowded and suffocatingly close Hall, in which the orator, 
perched on a stage, delivered himself of this and what other 
froth and fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself 
into a violent heat, and was as hoarse as he was hot. By 
dint of roaring at the top of his voice under a flaring gas-light, 
clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting his teeth, and 
pounding with his arms, he had taken so much out of himself 
by this time, that he was brought to a stop, and called for a 
glass of water. 

As he stood there, trying to quench his fiery face with his 


66o 


TIMES, 


drink of water, the comparison between the orator and the 
crowd of attentive faces turned towards him, was extremely to 
his disadvantage. Judging him by Nature’s evidence, he was 
above the mass in very little but the stage on which he stood. 
In many great respects he was essentially below them. He 
was not so honest, he was not so manly, he was not so good- 
humored ; he substituted cunning for their simplicity, and pas 
sion for their safe solid sense. An ill-made, high-shouldered 
man, with lowering brows, and his features crushed into an 
habitually sour expression, he contrasted most unfavorably, 
even in his mongrel dress, with the great body of his hearers 
in their plain working clothes. Strange as it always is to con- 
sider any assembly in the act of submissively resigning itself 
to the dreariness of some complacent person, lord or commoner, 
whom three-fourths of it could, by no human means, raise out 
of the slough of inanity to their own intellectual level, it was 
particularly strange, and it was even particularly affecting, to 
see this crowd of earnest faces, whose honesty in the main no 
competent observer free from bias could doubt, so agitated by 
such a leader. 

Good ! Hear, hear ! Hurrah ! The eagerness both of 
attention and intention, exhibited in all the countenances, 
made them a most impressive sight. There was no careless- 
ness, no languor, no idle curiosity ; none of the many shades 
of indifference to be seen in all other assemblies, visible for 
one moment there. That every man felt his condition to be, 
somehow or other, worse than it might be ; that every man 
considered it incumbent on him to join the rest, towards the 
making of it better ; that every man felt his only hope to be 
in his allying himself to the comrades by whom he was sur- 
rounded ; and that in this belief, right or wrong (unhappily 
wrong then), the whole of that crowd were gravely, deeply, 
faithfully in earnest ; must have been as plain to any one 
who chose to see what was there, as the bare beams of the 
roof and the whitened brick walls. Nor could any such 
spectator fail to know in his own breast, that these men, 
through their very delusions, showed great qualities, suscep 
tible of being turned to the happiest and best account ; and 
that to pretend (on the strength of sweeping axioms, how- 
soever cut and dried) that they went astray wholly without 
cause, and of their own irrational wills, was to pretend that 
there could be smoke without fire, death without birth, harvest 
without seed, anything or everything produced from nothing. 


MEN AND BROTHERS. 


66 1 

The orator having refreshed himself, wiped his corrugated 
forehead from left to right several times with his handkerchief 
folded into a pad, and concentrated all his revived forces, in 
a sneer of great disdain and bitterness. 

‘‘ But, oh my friends and brothers ! Oh men and English- 
men, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown ! What shall 
we say of that man — that working-man, that I should find it 
necessary so to libel the glorious name — who being practically 
and well acquainted with the grievances and wrongs of you, 
the injured pith and marrow of this land, and having heard 
3^ou, with a noble and majestic unanimity that will make 
Tyrants tremble, resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the 
United Aggregate Tribunal, and to abide by the injunctions 
issued by that body for your benefit, whatever they may be — 
what, I ask you, will you say of that working-man, since such 
I must acknowledge him to be, who, at such a time, deserts 
his post, and sells his flag ; who, at such a time, turns a traitor 
and a craven and a recreant ; who, at such a time, is not 
ashamed to make to you the dastardly and humiliating avowal 
that he will hold himself aloof, and not be one of those asso- 
ciated in the gallant stand for Freedom and for Right 'i ” 

The assembly was divided at this point. There were some 
groans and hisses, but the general sense of honor was much 
too strong for the condemnation of a man unheard. “ Be 
sure you’re right, Slackbridge ! ” ‘‘ Put him up ! ” “ Let’s 

hear him ! ” Such things were said on many sides. Finally, 
one strong voice called out, “ Is the man heer ? If the man’s 
heer, Slackbridge, let’s hear the man himseln, ’stead o’ yo.” 
Which was received with a round of applause. 

Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him with a withering 
smile ; and holding out his right hand at arm’s length (as the 
manner of all Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea, 
waited until there was a profound silence. 

“ Oh my friends and fellow-men ! ” said Slackbridge then, 
shaking his head with violent scorn, ‘‘ I do not wonder that 
3'ou, the prostrate sons of labor, are incredulous of the exist- 
ence of such a man. But he who sold his birthright for 
a mess of pottage existed, and Judas Iscariot existed, and 
Castlereagh existed, and this man exists ! ” 

Here, a brief press and confusion near the stage, ended 
in the man himself standing at the orator’s side before the 
concourse. He was pale and a little moved in the face — his 
lips especially showed it ; but he stood quiet, with his left 


662 


HARD TIMES, 


hand at his chin, waiting to be heard. There was a chairman 
to regulate the proceedings, and this functionary now took 
the case into his own hands. 

Aly friends,” said he, “ by virtue o’ my office as your 
president, I ashes o’ our friend Slackbridge, who may be a 
little over better in this business, to take his seat, whiles this 
man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You. all know this man 
Stephen Blackpool. You know him awlung o’ his misfort’nSy 
and his good name.” 

With that, the chairman shook him frankly by the hand, 
and sat down again. Slackbridge likewise sat down, wiping 
his hot forehead — always from left to right, and never the 
reverse way. 

“ My friends,” Stephen began, in the midst of a dead calm ; 

I ha’ hed what’s been spok’n o’ me, and ’tis lickly that I 
shan’t mend it. But I’d liefer you’d hearn the truth concernin 
myseln, fro my lips than fro onny other man’s, though I 
never cud’n speak afore so monny, wi’out bein moydert and 
muddled.” 

Slackbridge shook his head as if he would shake it off, in 
his bitterness. 

^M’m th’ one single Hand in Bounderby’s mill, o’ a’ the 
men theer, as don’t coom in wi’ th’ proposed reg’lations. I 
canna’ coom in wi’ ’em. My friends, I doubt their doin’ yo 
onny good. Licker they’ll do yo hurt.” 

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned sarcas- 
tically. 

But ’t ant sommuch for that as I stands out. If that 
were aw. I’d coom in wi’ th’ rest. But I ha’ my reasons — 
mine, yo see — for being hindered ; not on’y now, but awlus — 
awlus — life long ! ” 

Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside him, gnashing 
and tearing. ‘‘ Oh my friends, what but this did I tell you ? 
Oh my fellow-countrymen, what warning but this did I give 
you ? And how shows this recreant conduct in a man on 
whom unequal laws are known to have fallen heavy 't Oh 
you Englishmen, I ask you how does this subornation show in 
one of yourselves, who is thus consenting to his own undoing 
and to yours, and to your’ children’s and your children’s 
children’s ? ” 

There was some applause, and some crying of Shame upon 
the man ; but the greater part of the. audience were quiet. 
They looked at Stephen’s worn face, rendered more pathetic 


MEN AND BROTHERS, 663 

by the homely emotions it evinced 3 and, in the kindness of 
their nature, they were more sorry than indignant. 

’Tis this Delegate's trade for t’ speak,” said Stephen, 
‘‘ an’ he’s paid for ’t, an he knows his work. Let him keep 
to ’t. Let him give no heed to what I ha had’n to bear. 
That’s not for him. That’s not for nobbody but me.” 

There was a propriety, not to say a dignity in these words, 
that made the hearers yet more quiet and attentive. The 
same strong voice called out, “ Slackbridge, let the man be 
heern, and howd thee tongue ! ” Then the place was wonder 
fully still. 

“ My brothers,” said Stephen, whose low voice was dis- 
tinctly heard, ‘‘ and my fellow-workmen — for. that yo are to 
me, though not, as I knows on, to this delegate here — I ha 
but a word to sen, and I could sen ncmmore if I was to speak 
till Strike ’o day. I know weel, aw what’s afore me. I know 
weel that yo aw resolve to ha nommore ado wi’ a man who is 
not wi’ yo in this matther. I know weel that if I was a lyin 
jDarisht i’ th’ road, yo’d feel it right to pass me by, as a forren- 
ner and stranger. What I ha getn, I mun mak th’ best on. 

“ Stephen Blackpool,” said the chairman, rising, think 
on’t agen. Think on’t once agen, lad, afore thour’t shunned 
by aw owd friends.” 

There was an universal murmur to the same effect, though 
no man articulated a word. Every eye was fixed on Stephen’s 
face. To repent of his determination, would be to take a load 
from all their minds. He looked around him, and knew that 
it was so. Not a grain of anger with them was in his heart \ 
he knew them, far below their surface weaknesses and miscon- 
ceptions, as no one but their fellow-laborer could. 

“ I ha thowt on’t, above a bit, sir. I simply canna coom in. 
I mun go th’ way as lays afore me. I mun tak my leave o’ aw 
heer.” 

He made a sort of reverence to them by holding up his 
arms, and stood for the moment in that attitude : not speak- 
ing until they slowly dropped at his sides. 

^‘Monny’s the pleasant word as soom heer has spok’n wi’ 
me ; monny’s the face I see heer, as I first seen when I were 
yoong and lighter heart’n than now. I ha never had no fratch 
afore, sin ever I were born, wi’ any o’ my like 3 Gonnows I 
ha’ none now that’s o’ my makin’. Yo’ll ca’ me traitor and 
that — yo I mean t’ say,” addressing Slackbridge, but ’tis 
easier to ca’ than mak’ out. So let be.” 


664 


//AA^£^ TIMES, 


He had moved away a pace or two to come down from the 
platform, when he remembered something he had not said, 
and returned again. 

‘‘Haply,” he said, turning his furrowed face slowly about, 
that he might as it were individually address the whole audi- 
ence, those both near and distant ; “ haply, when this question 
has been tak’n up and discoosed, there’ll be a threat to turn 
out if I’m let to work among yo. I hope I shall die ere ever 
such a time cooms, and I shall work solitary among yo unless 
it cooms — truly, I mun do ’t, my friends ; not to brave yo, 
but to live ; I ha nobbut work to live by ; and wheerever 
can I go, I who ha worked sin I were no heighth at aw, in 
Coketown heer ? I mak’ no complaints o’ bein turned to the 
wa’, o’ being outcasten and overlooken fro this time forrard, 
but I hope I shall be let to work. If there is any right for 
me at aw, my friends, I think ’tis that.” 

Not a word was spoken. Not a sound was audible in the 
building, but the slight rustle of men moving a little apart, all 
along the centre of the room, to open a means of passing out, 
to the man with whom they had all bound themselves to 
renounce companionship. Looking at no one, and going his 
way with a lowly steadiness upon him that asserted nothing 
and sought nothing. Old Stephen, with all his troubles on his 
head, left the scene. 

Then Slackbridge, who had kept his oratorical arm ex- 
tended during the going out, as if he were repressing with 
infinite solicitude and by a wonderful moral power the vehe- 
ment passions of the multitude, applied himself to raising their 
spirits. Had not the Roman Brutus, oh my British countiy- 
men, condemned his son to death ; and had not the Spartan 
mothers, oh my soon to be victorious friends, driven their 
flying children on the points of their enemies’ swords 1 Then 
was it not the sacred duty of the men of Coketown, with 
forefathers before them, an admiring world in company with 
them, and a posterity to come after them, to hurl out traitors ^ 
from the tents they had pitched in a sacred and a Godlike 
cause? The winds of heaven answered Yes ; and bore Yes, 
east, west, north, and south. And consequently three cheers 
for the United Aggregate Tribunal ! 

Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave the time. 7'he 
multitude of doubtful faces (a little Conscience stricken) 
brightened at the sound, and took it up. Private feeling must 
yield to the common cause. Hurrah ! The roof yet vibrated 
with the cheering, when the assembly dispersed. 


MEN AND BROTHERS. . 665 

Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into the loneliest 
of lives, the life of solitude among a familiar crowd. The 
stranger in the land who looks into ten thousand faces for 
some answering look and never finds it, is in cheering society 
as compared with him who passes ten avertecF faces daily, 
that were once the countenances of friends. Such experience 
was to be Stephen’s now, in every waking moment of his life ; 
at his work, on his way to it and from it, at his door, at his 
window, everywhere. By general consent, they even avoided 
that side of the street on which he habitually walked ; and 
left it, of all the working men, to him only. 

He had been for many years, a quiet silent man, associa- 
ting but little with other men, and used to coInjDanionship with 
his own thoughts. He had never known before the strength 
of the want in his heart for the frequent recognition of a nod, 
a look, a word ; or the immense amount of relief that had been 
poured into it by drops, through such small means. It was 
even harder than he could have believed possible, to separate 
in his own conscience his abandonment by all his fellows from 
a baseless sense of shame and disgrace. 

The first four days of his endurance were days so long and 
heavy, that he began to be appalled by the prospect before 
him. Not only did he see no Rachael all the time, but he 
avoided ever\^ chance of seeing her ; for, although he knew 
that the prohibition did not yet formally extend to the women 
working in the factories, he found that some of them with 
whom he was acquainted were changed to him, and he feared 
to try others, and dreaded that Rachael might be even 
singled out from the rest if she were seen in his company. So 
he had been quite alone during the four days, and had spoken 
to no one, when, as he was leaving his work at night, a young 
man of a very light complexion accosted him in the street. 

“ Your name’s Blackpool, ain’t it ? ” said the young man. 

Stephen colored to find himself with his hat in his hand, 
in his gratitude for being spoken to, or in the suddenness of 
it, or both. He made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, 
‘‘ Yes.” 

‘‘ You are the Hand they have sent to Coventry, I mean ? ” 
said Bitzer, the very light young man in question. 

Stephen answered “Yes,” again. 

“ I supposed so, from their all appearing to keep away from 
you. Mr. Bounderby wants to speak to you. You know his 
house, don’t you ? ” 


666 


//A AW TIMES. 


Stephen said Yes,” again. 

‘‘ Then go straight up there, will you ? ” said Bitzer. 

You’re expected, and have only to tell the servant it’s you. 
I belong to the Bank ; so if you go straight up without me (I 
was sent to fetch you), you’ll save me a walk.” 

Stephen, whose w^ay had led him in the contrary direction, 
turned about, and betook himself as in duty bound, to the red 
brick castle of the giant Bounderby. 


CHAPTER V. 

MEN AND MASTERS. 

“Well, Stephen,” said Bounderby, in his windy manner, 
“ what’s this I hear What have these pests of the earth been 
doing to you ? Come in, and speak up.” 

It was into the drawing-room that he was thus bidden. A 
tea-table was set out; and Mr. Bounderby’s young wife, and 
her brother, and a great gentleman from London, were pres- 
ent. To whom Stephen made his obeisance, closing the door 
and standing near it, with his hat in his hand. 

“This is the man I was telling you about, Harthouse,” 
said Mr. Bounderby. The gentleman he addressed, who was 
talking to Mrs. Bounderby on the sofa, got up saying, in an 
indolent way, “ Oh really ? ” and dawdled to the hearthrug 
where Mr. Bounderby stood. 

“ Now,” said Bounderby, “ speak up ! ” 

After the four days he had passed, this address fell rudely 
and discordantly on Stephen’s ear. Besides being a rough 
handling of his wounded mind, it seemed to assume that he 
really was the self-interested deserter he had been called. 

“ What were it, sir,” said Stephen, “ as yo were pleased to 
want wi’ me ? ” 

“Why, I have told you,” returned Bounderby. “Speak 
up like a man, since you are a man, and tell us about your- 
self and this Combination.” 

“Wi’ yor pardon, sir,” said Stephen Blackpool, “I ha’ 
nowt to sen about it.” 

Mr. Bounderby, who was always more or less like a Wind, 
finding something in his way here, began to blow at it directly. 


MEX AND MASTERS. 


667 

“ Now, look here, Harthouse,” said he, “ here’s a specimen 
of ’em. When this man was here once before, I warned this 
man against the mischievous strangers who are always about 
- — and who ought to be hanged wherever they are found — -and 
I told this man that he was going in the wrong direction. Now, 
would you believe it, that although they have put this mark 
upon him, he is such a slave to them still, that he’s afraid to 
open his lips about them ” 

I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir ; not as I was fearfo’ o’ 
openin’ my lips.” 

“ You said. Ah ! / know what you said ; more than that, 

I know what you mean, you see. Not always the same thing, 
by the Lord Harry! Quite different things.- You had better 
tell us at once, that that fellow Slackbridge is not in the town, 
stirring up the people to mutiny,; and that he is not a regular 
qualified leader of the people : that is, a most confounded 
scoundrel. You had better tell us so at once ; you can’t 
deceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don’t you ? ” 

“ I’m as sooary as yo, sir, when the people’s leaders is 
bad,” said Stephen, shaking his head. ‘‘ They taks such as 
offers. Haply ’tis na’ the sma’est o’ their misfortuns when 
they can get no better.” 

The wind began to get boisterous. 

“ Now, you’ll think this pretty well, Harthouse,” said Mr. 
Bounderby. “You’ll think this tolerably strong. You’ll say, 
upon my soul this is a tidy specimen of what my friends have 
to deal with ; but this is nothing, sir ! You shall hear me ask 
this man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool ” — wind springing 
up very' fast — “ may I take the liberty of asking you how it 
happens that you refused to be in this Combination ? ” 

“ How ’t happens } ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs in the arms 
of his coat, and jerking his head and shutting his eyes in con- 
fidence with the opposite wall : “ how it happens.” 

“ I’d leefer not coom to ’t, sir ; but sin you put th’ question 
— and notwant’n t’ be ill-manner’n — I’ll answer. I ha passed 
a promess.” 

“ Not to me, you know,” said Bounderby. (Gusty weather 
with deceitful calms. One now prevailing.) 

“ O no, sir. Not to yo.” 

“ As for me, any consideration for me has had just nothing 
at all to do with it,” said Bounderby, still in confidence with 
the wall. “ If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had been 


668 


TIMES. 


in question, you would have joined and made no bones about 
it ? ” 

‘‘ Why yes, sir. Tis true.” 

Though he knows,” said Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a 
gale, that there are a set of rascals and rebels whom trans* 
portation is too good for ! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have 
been knocking about in the world some time. Did you ever 
meet with anything like that man out of this blessed country ” 
And Mr. Bounderby pointed him out for inspection, with an 
angry finger. 

‘‘Nay, ma’am,” said Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protest- 
ing against the words that had been used, and instinctively 
addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face. “ Not 
rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o’ th’ kind, ma’am, nowt o’ th’ 
kind. They’ve not doon me a kindness, ma’am, as I know 
and feel. But there’s not a dozen men amoong ’em, ma’am — 
a dozen } Not six — ^but what believes as he has doon his 
duty by the rest and by himseln. God forbid as I, that ha 
known, and had’n experience o’ these men aw my life — I, that 
ha’ ett’n an droonken wi’ ’em, an seet’n wi’ ’em, and toil’n wi’ 
’em, and lov’n ’em, should fail fur to stan by ’em wi’ the 
truth, let ’em ha doon to me what they may ! ” 

He spoke with the rugged earnestness of his place and 
character — deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that he 
was faithful to his class under all their mistrust ; but he fully 
remembered where he was, and did not even raise his voice. 

“ No, ma’am, no. They’re true to one another, faithfo’ to 
one another, fectionate to one another, e’en to death. Be poor 
amoong ’em, be sick amoong ’em, grieve amoong ’em for onny 
o’ th’ monny causes that carries grief to the poor man’s door, 
an they’ll be tender wi’ yo, gentle wi’ ~yo, comfortable wi’ yo, 
Chrisen wi’ you. Be sure o’ that, ma’am. They’d be riven 
to bits, ere ever they’d be different.” 

“ In short,” said Mr. Bounderby, “ it’s because they are 
so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift. Go through 
with it while you are about it. Out with it.” 

“ How ’tis, ma’am,” resumed Stephen, appearing still to 
find his natural refuge in Louisa’s face, “ that what is best in us 
fok, seems to turn us most to trouble an misfort’n an mistake, 
I dunno. But ’tis so. I know ’tis, as I know the heavens is 
over me ahint the smoke. We’re patient too, an wants in 
general to do right. An’ I canna think the fawtis awwi’ us.” 

“ Now, my friend,” said Mr. Bounderby, whom he could 


MEN AND MASTERS. 


669 

not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it though he 
was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, if you will 
lavor me with your attention for half a minute, I should like 
to have a word or two with you. You said just now, that you 
had nothing to tell us about this business. You are quite sure 
of that before we go any further.’’ 

“ Sir, I am sure on ’t.” 

“ Here’s a gentleman from London present,” Mr. Bounder- 
by made a backhanded point at Mr. James Harthouse with 
his thumb, “ a Parliament gentleman. I should like him to 
hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of 
taking the substance of it — for I know precious well, before- 
hand, what it will be ; nobody knows better than I do, take 
notice ! — instead of receiving it on trust from my mouth.” 

Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from London, and 
showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned 
his eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from 
that quarter (expressive though instantaneous) he settled them 
on Mr. Bounderby’s face. 

Now, what do you complain of ? ” asked Mr. Bounderby. 

“ I ha’ not coom here, sir,” Stephen reminded him, “ (o 
complain. I coom for that I were sent for.” 

“ What,” repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding his arms, “ do 
you people, in a general way, complain of ? ” 

Stephen looked at him with some little' irresolution for a 
moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. 

Sir, I were never good at showin o ’t, though I ha had’nt 
my share in feeling o ’t. ’Deed we are in a muddle, sir. Look 
round town — so rich as ’tis — and see the numbers o’ people 
as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave, an to 
card, an to piece out a livin’, aw the same one way, somehows, 
twixt their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an 
wheer we live, an in what numbers, an by what chances, and 
wi’ what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a goin, 
and how they never works us no nigher to ony dis’ant object 
— ceptin awlus. Death. Look how you considers of us, and 
writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi’ yor deputations 
to Secretaries o’ State ’bout us, and how yo are awlus right, 
and how we are awlus wrong, and never had’n no reason in 
us sin ever we were born. Look how this ha growen an 
growen, sir, bigger an bigger, broader an broader, harder an 
harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto generation. Who 
can look on ’t, sir, and fairly tell a man ’tis not a muddle ? ” 


670 


HARD TIMES. 


“ Of course,’^ said Mr. Bounderby. “ Now perhaps you’ll 
let the gentleman know, how you would set this muddle (as 
you’re so fond of calling it) to rights.” 

“ I dunno, sir. I canna be expecten to ’t. ’Tis not me as 
should be looken to for that, sir. ’Tis them as is put ower 
me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon 
themseln, sir, if not to do ’t ? ” 

I’ll tell you something towards it, at any rate, returned 
Mr. Bounderby. “ We will make an example of half a dozen 
Slackbridges. We’ll indict the blackguards for felony, and 
get ’em shipped off to penal settlements.” 

Stephen gravely shook his head. 

Don’t tell me we won’t man,” said Mr. Bounderby, by 
this time blowing a hurricane, because we will, I tell you ! ” 
Sir,” returned Stephen, with the quiet confidence of ab- 
solute certainty, “ if yo was t’ tak a hundred Slackbridges — 
aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd — an’ was 
t’ sew ’em up in separate sacks, an sink ’em in the deepest 
ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo’d leave 
the muddle just wheer ’tis. Mischeevous strangers!” said 
Stephen, with an anxious smile ; ‘‘ when ha we not heern, I 
am sure, sin ever we can call to mind, o’ th’ mischeevous 
strangers ! ’Tis not by the7n the trouble’s made, sir. ’Tis 
not wi’ the7n ’t commences. I ha no favor for ’em — I ha no 
reason to favor ’em — but ’tis hopeless and useless to dream 
o’ takin them fro their trade, ’stead o’ takin their trade fro 
them ! Aw that’s now about me in this room were heer afore 
I coom, an will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock 
aboard a ship an pack it off to Norfolk Island, an the time 
will go on just the same. So ’tis wi Slackb ridge every bit.” 

Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed 
a cautionai*)^ movement of her eyes towards the door. Step- 
ping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not 
spoken out of his own will and desire ; and he felt it in his 
heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be 
faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He 
stayed to finish what was in his mind. 

Sir, I canna, wi’ my little learning an my common way, 
tell the genelman what will better aw this — though some 
working men o’ this town could, above my powers — but I can 
tell him what I know will never do ’t. The strong hand will 
never do ’t. Vict’ry and triumph will never do ’t. Agreeing 
fur to mak one side unnat’rally awlus and for ever right, and 


MEN AND MASTED. 


67 I 

toother side unnat’rally awlus and for ever wrong, will never, 
never do ’t. Nor yet lettin alone will never do ’t. Let thou- 
sands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw 
faw’en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo 
will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpassable world betwixt yo, 
just as long or short a time as sitch-like misery can last. Not 
drawin nigh to fok, wi’ kindness and patience and cheery ways, 
that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and 
so cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ what they 
need themseln — like, I humbly believe, as no people the 
genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat — will never do ’t 
till th’ Sun turns t’ ice. Most o’ aw, rating ’em as so much 
Power, and reg’latin ’em as if they was figures in a soom, or 
machines : wi’out loves and likens, wi’out memories and in- 
clinations, wi’out souls to weary and souls to hope — when aw 
goes quiet, draggin on wi’ ’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, 
and when aw goes onquiet, reproachin ’em for their want o’ 
sitch humanly feelins in their dealins wi’ yo — this will never 
do ’t sir, till God’s work is onmade.” 

Stephen stood with the open door in his hand, waiting to 
know if anything more were expected of him. 

‘‘ Just step a moment,” said Mr. Bounderby, excessively 
red in the face. “ I told you, the last time you were here with 
a grievance, that you had better turn about and come out of 
that. And I also told you, if you remember, that I was up to 
the gold spoon look-out.” 

I were not up to ’t myseln, sir ; I do assure you.” 

“ Now it’s clear to me,” said Mr. Bounderby, that you 
are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance. 
And you go about, sowing it and raising crops. That’s the 
business of jw/r life, my friend.” 

Stephen shook his head, mutely protesting that indeed he 
had other business to do for his life. 

You are such a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned chap, 
you see,” said Mr. Bounderby, “ that even your own Union, 
the men who know you best, will have nothing to do with you. 
1 never thought those fellows could be right in anything ; but 
I tell you what ! I so far go along with them for a novelty, 
that /’ll have nothing to do with you either.” 

Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face. 

‘‘ You can finish off what you’re at,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
with a meaning nod, ‘‘ and then go elsewhere.” 

Sir, yo know weel,” said Stephen expressively, “ that if 
I canna get work wi' yo, I canna get it elsewheer." 


672 


//A/^/J TIMES. 


The reply was, “ What I know, I know ; and what you 
know, you know. I have no more to say about it.’’ 

Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyes were raised 
to his no more ; therefore, with a sigh, and saying, barely 
above his breath, “ Heaven help us aw in this world ! ” he de- 
parted. 


CHAPTER VI. 

FADING AWAY. 

It was falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr. Bound- 
erby’s house. The shadows of night had gathered so fast, 
that he did not look about him when he closed the door, but 
plodded straight along the street. Nothing was further from 
his thoughts than the curious old woman he had encountered 
on his previous visit to the same house, v/hen he heard a step 
behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael’s 
company. 

He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only. 

‘‘ Ah, Rachael, my dear ! Missus, thou wi’ her! ” 

‘‘ Well, and now you are surprised to be sure, and. with 
reason I must say,” the old woman returned. “ Here I am 
again, you see.” 

But how wi’ Rachael } ” said Stephen, falling into their 
step, walking between them, and looking from the one to the 
other. 

‘‘ Why, I come to be with this good lass pretty much as I 
came to be with you,” said the. old woman, cheerfully, taking 
the reply upon herself. “ My visiting time is later this year 
than usual, for I have been rather troubled with shortness of 
breath, and so put it off till the weather was fine and warm. 
For the same reason I don’t make all my journey in one day, 
but divide it into two days, and get a bed to-night at the 
Travellers’ Coffee House down by the railroad (a nice clean 
house), and go back Parliamentary, at six in the morning. 
Well, but what has this to do with this good lass, says you } 
I’m going to tell you. I have heard of Mr. Boun derby being 
married. I read it in the paper, where it looked grand — oh, 
it looked fine ! ” the old woman dwelt on it with strange en- 


FADING A WA Y. 


673 

thusiasm : and I want to see his wife. I have never seen 
hec yet. Now, if you’ll believe me, she hasn’t come out of 
that house since noon to-day. So not to give her up too 
easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit more, when I 
passed close to this good lass two or three times ; and her 
face being so friendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me. 
There ! ” said the old woman to Stephen, you can make all 
the rest out for yourself now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare 
say ! ” 

Once again, Stephen had to conquer an instinctive pro- 
pensity to dislike this old woman, though her manner was as 
honest and simple as a manner possibly could be. With a 
gentleness that was as natural to him as he knew it to be to 
Rachael, he pursued the subject that interested her in her old 
age. 

“Well missus,” s^id he, “I ha seen the lady, and she 
were young and hansom. Wi’ fine dark thinkin eyes, and a 
still way, Rachael, as I ha never seen the like on.” 

“Young and handsome. Yes!” cried the old woman, 
quite delighted. “ As bonny as a rose ! And what a happy 
wife ! ” 

“ Ay, missus, I suppose she be,” said Stephen. But 
with a doubtful glance at Rachael. 

“ Suppose she be ? She must be. She’s your master’s 
wife,” returned the old woman. 

Stephen nodded assent. “ Though as to master,” said 
he, glancing again at Rachael, “ not master onny more. 
That’s aw enden twixt him and me.” 

“ Have you left his work, Stephen } ” asked Rachael, 
anxiously and quickly. 

“ Why Rachael,” he replied, “ whether I ha lef’n his work, 
or whether his work ha lef’n me, cooms t’ th’ same. His 
work and me are parted. ’Tis as weel so — better, I were 
thinkin when yo coom up wi’ me. It would ha brought’n 
trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply ’tis a 
kindness to monny that I go ; haply ’tis a kindness to my- 
seln ; anyways it mun be done. I mun turn my face fro 
Coketown fur th’ time, and seek a fort’n dear, by beginnin 
fresh.” 

“ Where will you go, Stephen ? ” 

“ I donno t’night,” said he, lifting oh his hat/and smooth- 
ing his thin hair with the flat of his hand. “ But I’m not 
goin t’night, Rachael, nor vet t’morrow. Tan’t easy over 
29 


flARJ) TIMES. 


674 

much, t’know wheer t’turn, but a good heart will coom to 
me.” 

Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided 
him. Before he had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby’s 
door, he had reflected that at least his being obliged to go 
away was good for her, as it would save her from the chance 
of being brought into question for not withdrawing from him. 
Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her, and 
though he could think of no similar place in which his con- 
demnation would not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a 
relief to be forced away from the endurance of the last four 
days, even to unknown difficulties and distresses. 

So he said, with truth, ^H’m more leetsome, Rachael, 
under ’t, than I couldn ha believed.” It was not her part to 
make his burden heavier. She answered with her comforting 
smile, and the three walked on together. 

Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and 
cheerful, finds much consideration among the poor. The old 
woman was so decent and contented, and made so light of 
her infirmities, though they had increased upon her since her 
former interview with Stephen, that they both took an inter- 
est in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their walking 
at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to 
be talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent ; so, when 
they came to their part of the town, she was more brisk and 
vivacious than ever. 

Coom to my poor place, missus,” said Stephen, ‘‘and 
tak a coop o’ tea. Rachael will coom then ; and arterwards 
I’ll see thee safe t’ thy Travellers’ lodgin. ’T may be long, 
Rachael, ere ever I ha th’ chance o’ thy coompany agen.” 

They complied, and the three went on to the house where 
he lodged. When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen 
glanced at liis window with a dread that always haunted his 
desolate home ; but it was open, as he had left it, and no one 
was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted away again, 
months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The 
only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier mov- 
ables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his head. 

He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got liot 
water from below, and brought in small portions of tea and 
sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The 
bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar 
limip^ of course— in fulfilment- of the- standard testimony of 


FADING A IVA K 


675 

the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, 
sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the 
borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It 
was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many 
days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, en- 
joyed the meal — again in corroboration of the magnates, as 
exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these 
people, sir. 

“ I ha never thowt yet, missus,” said Stephen, “ o’ askin 
thy name.” 

The old lady announced herself as “Mrs. Pegler.” 

“ A widder, 1 think 1 ” said Stephen. 

“Oh, many long years ! ” Mrs. Pegler’s liusband (one of 
the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler’s calcu- 
latioiij when Stephen was born. 

“’Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one,” said 
Stephen. “ Onny children ? ” 

Mrs, Pegler’s cup, rattling against her saucer as she held 
it, denoted some nervousness on her part. “No,” she said. 
“ Not now, not now.” 

“ Dead, Stephen,” Rachael softly hinted. 

“ I’m sooary I ha spok'n on ’t,” said Stephen, “ I ought t’ 
hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I — I blame 
myseln.” 

While he excused himself, the old lady’s cup rattled more 
and more. “I had a son,” she said, curiously distressed, and 
not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; “ and he did 
well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you 
please. He is — ” Putting down her cup, she moved her' 
hands as if she would have added, by her action, “ dead ! ” 
Then she said aloud, “ I have lost him.” 

Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the 
old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the nar- 
row stairs, and calling him to the doer, whispered in his ear. 
Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for she caught a word as 
it was uttered. 

“ Bounderby ! ” she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting 
up from the table. “ Oh hide me ! Don’t let me be seen 
for the world. Don’t let him come up till I’ve got away. 
Pray, pray ! ” She trembled, and was excessively agitated ; 
getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; 
and not seeming to know what she was about. 

“ .But_ hearken^ missus, hearken;” said Stephen, aston- 


HARD TIMES. 


676 

ished. ’Tisn’t Mr. Bounderby ; ’tis his wife. Yor not 
fearfo’ o’ her. Yo was hey-go-mad about her, but an hour 
sin.” 

But are you sure it’s the lady, and not the gentleman 1 ” 
she asked, still trembling. 

‘‘ Certain sure ! ” 

“ Well then, pray don’t speak to me, nor yet take any 
notice of me,” said the old woman. “Let me be quite by 
myself in this corner.” 

Stephen nodded ; looking to Rachael for an explanation, 
which she was quite unable to give him ; took the candle, went 
down stairs, and in a few moments returned, lighting Louisa 
into the room. She was followed by the whelp. 

Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and 
bonnet in her hand, when Stephen, himself profoundly as- 
tonished by this visit, put the candle on the table. Tlien he 
too stood, with his doubled hand upon the table near it, wait- 
ing to be addressed. 

For the first time in her life Louisa had come into one of 
the dwellings of the Coketown Hands ; for the first time in 
her life she was face to face with anything like individuality 
in connection with them. She knew of their existence by 
hundreds and by thousands. She knew what results in work 
a given number of them could produce in a given space of 
time. She knew them in crowds passing to and from their 
nests, like ants or beetles. But she knew from her reading 
infinitely more of the ways of toiling insects than of these 
toiling men and women. ’ 

Something to be worked ;s6 much and paid so much, and 
there ended ; something to be infallibly settled by laws of 
supply and demand ; something that blundered against those 
laws, and floundered into difficulty ; something that was a 
little pinched when wheat was dear, and over-ate itself when 
wheat was cheap ; something that increased at such a rate of 
percentage and yielded such another percentage of crime, and 
such another percentage of pauperism ; something wholesale, 
of which vast fortunes were m.ade ; something that occasionally 
rose like a sea, and did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself), 
a id fell again , this she knew the Coketown Hands to be. 
Lut, she had scarcely thought more of separating them into 
units, than of separating the sea itself into its component 
drops. 

She stood for some moments looking round the room- 


FAJ^Ji\c; AllFlV. 677 

From the few chairs, the few books, the common prints, and 
the bed, she glanced to the two women, and to Stephen. 

I have come to speak to you in consequence of what 
passed just now. I should like to be serviceable to you, if 
you will let me. Is this your wife ? ” 

Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently answered no, 
and dropped again. 

“ I remember,” said Louisa, reddening at her mistake ; “ I 
recollect, now, to have heard your domestic misfortunes 
spoken of, though I was not attending to the particulars at the 
time. It was not my meaning to ask a question that would 
give pain to any one here. If I should ask any other question 
that may happen to have that result, give me credit, if you 
please, for being ignorant how to speak to y-ou as I ought.” 

As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively addressed 
himself to her, so she now instinctively addressed herself to 
Rachael. Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering 
and timid. 

‘‘He has told you what has passed between himself and 
my husband ? Yoii would be his first resource, I think.” 

“ I have heard the end of it, young lad}^,” said Rachael, 

“ Did I understand, that, being rejected by one employer, 
he would probably be rejected by all ? I thought he said as 
much ? ” 

“ The chances are very small, young lady^ — next to noth- 
ing — for a man who gets a bad name among them.” 

“ What shall I understand fhat you mean by a bad 
name ? ” 

“The name of being troul^lesoine,” 

“ Then, by the prejudices of his own class, and by the pre- 
judices of the other, he is sacrificed alike ? Are the two so 
deeply separated in this town, that there is no place whatever, 
for an honest workman between them ? ” 

Rachael shook her head in silence. 

“He fell into suspicion,” said Louisa, “with his fellow- 
weavers, because he had made a promise not to be one of 
them. I think it must have been to you that he made that 
promise. Might I ask you why he made it.^ ” 

Rachael burst into tears. “ I didn’t seek it of him, poor 
lad. I prayed him to avoid trouble for his own good, little 
thinking that he’d come to it through me. But I know he’d 
die a hundred deaths, ere ever he’d break his word. I know 
that of him well.” 


678 


HARD 7'I1\IKS. 


Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in his usual 
thoughtful attitude, with his hand at his chin. He now spoke 
in a voice rather less steady than usual. 

‘‘ No one, excepting myseln, can ever know what honor, an 
what love, an respect, I bear to Rachael, or wi’ what cause. 
When I passed that promess, I towd her true, she were th’ 
Angel o’ my life. ’Twere a solemn promess. ’Tis gone fro’ 
me, for ever.” 

Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it with a defer- 
ence that was new in her. She looked from him to Rachael, 
and her features softened. What will you do ? ” she asked 
him. And her voice had softened too. 

“ Weel, ma’am,” said Stephen, making the best of it, with 
a smile ; when I ha finished off, I mun quit this part, and 
try another. Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but tiy^ ; there’s 
nowt to be done wi’out tryin’ — cept laying down and dying.” 

‘‘ How will you travel ? ” 

‘‘Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.” 

Louisa colored, and a purse appeared in her hand. The 
rustling of a bank-note was audible, as she unfolded one and 
laid it on the table. 

“ Rachael, will you tell him — for you know how, without 
offence — that this is freely his, to help him on his way ? Will 
you entreat him to take it ? ” 

“ I canna do that, young lady,” she answered, turning her 
head aside ; “ Bless you for thinking o’ the poor lad wi’ such 
tenderness. But ’tis for him to know his heart, and what is 
right according to it.” 

Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in part frightened, in 
part overcome with quick sympathy, when this man of so 
much self-command, who had been so plain and steady through 
the late interview, lost his composure in a moment, and now 
stood with his hand before his face. vShe stretched out hers, 
as if she would have touched him ; and then checked herself, 
and remained still. 

“ Not e’en Rachael,” said Stephen, when he stood again 
with his face uncovered, “ could mak sitch a kind offerin, by 
onny v/ords, kinder. T’ show^ that I’m not a man wd’out rea- 
son and gratitude. I’ll tak two pound. I’ll borrow ’t for t’ 
pay ’t back. ’Twill be the sweetest w'ork as ever I had one, 
that puts it in my power t’ acknowledge once more my lastin 
thankfulness for this present action.” 

She w^as fain to take up the note again and to substitute 


FADING A H'A V. 


679 

the much smaller sum he had named. He was neither 
courtly, nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any respect ; and 
yet his manner of accepting it, and of expressing his thanks 
without more words, had a grace in it that Lord Chesterfield 
could not have taught his son in a century. 

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one leg and sucking his 
walking-stick with sufficient unconcern, until the visit had at- 
tained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got 
up rather hurriedly, and put in a word. 

Just wait a moment. Loo ! Before we go, I should like 
to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head. 
If you’ll step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I’ll mention it. 
Never mind a light, man ! ” Tom was remarkably impatient 
of his moving towards the cupboard, to get ©ne. “It don’t . 
want a light.” 

Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed the room door, 
and held the lock in his hand. 

“ I say ! ” he whispered. “ I think I can do you a good 
turn. Don’t ask me what it is, because it may not come to 
anything. But there’s no harm in my trying.” 

His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen’s ear, it was 
so hot. 

“That was our light porter at the Bank,” said Tom, “who 
brought you the message to-night. I call him our light porter, 
because I belong to the Bank too.” 

Stephen thought, “ What a hurry he is in ! ” He spoke so 
confusedly. 

“Well ! ” said Tom. “Now look here 1 When are you 
off ! ” 

“ T’ day’s Monday,” replied Stephen, considering. “ Why, 
sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh ’bout.” 

“ Friday or Saturday,” said Tom. “ Now, look here 1 I 
am not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to do you 
— that’s my sister, you know, in your room — but I may be 
able to, and if I should not be able to, there’s no harm' done. 
So I tell you what. You’ll know our light porter again ? ” 

“ Yes sure,” said vStephen. 

“ Very well,” returned Tom. “ When you leave work of a 
night, between this and your going away, just hang about the 
Bank an hour or so, will you ? Don’t take on, as if you meant 
anything if he should see you hanging about there; because I 
shan’t put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you 
the service I want to do you. In that case he ’ll have a note 


68o 


//A/^/) TIMES, 


or a message for you, but not else. Now look here ! You 
are sure you understand.’^ 

He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a 
button-hole of Stephen’s coat, and was screwing that corner 
of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary 
manner. 

‘‘ I understand, sir,” said Stephen. 

Now look here !” repeated Tom. ‘‘Be sure you don’t 
make any mistake then, and don’t forget. I shall tell my 
sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she ’ll approve, 
I know. Now look here ! You’re all right, are you You un- 
derstand all about it ? Very well then. Come along. Loo !” 

He pushed the door open as he called to her, but did not 
return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the narrow 
stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, 
and was in the street before she could take his arm. 

Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother and 
sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the candle 
in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration 
of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, 
wept, “ because she was such a pretty dear.” Yet Mrs. Pegler 
was so flurried lest the object of her admiration should return 
by chance, or anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness 
was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose 
early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up ; and 
Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysterious acquaintance 
to the door of the Travellers’ Coffee House, where they parted 
from her. 

They walked back together to the corner of the street 
where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer to 
it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark 
corner where their unfrequent meetings always ended, they 
stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid to speak. 

“ I shall strive t’ see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but 
if not: ” 

“ Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. ’Tis better that we 
make up our minds to be open wi’ one another.” 

“ Thou’rt awlus right. ’Tis bolder and better. I ha been 
thinkin then, Rachael, that as ’tis but a day or two that 
remains, ’twere better fcr r -e, mv dear, not t’ be seen wi ’ 
me. ’T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good.” 

“ ’Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thou know’st 
our old agreement. Tis for that.” 


FADING A WA K 


68 1 


Well, well,” said he. “ ’Tis better, onnyways.” 

‘‘ Thou ’It write to me, and tell me all that happens, 
Stephen ? ” 

‘‘ Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi’ thee, Heaven 
bless thee. Heaven thank thee and reward thee ! ” 

May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wanderings, 
and send thee peace and rest at last ! ” 

I towd thee, my dear,” said Stephen Blackpool — that 
night — that I would never see or think o’ onnything that 
angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should’st be 
beside it. Thou’rt beside it now. Thou mak’st me see it wi’ 
a better eye. Bless thee. Good-night. Good-by ! ” 

It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet it was 
a sacred remembrance to these two common people. Utilita- 
rian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners 
of Fact, genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little 
dog’s-eared creeds, the poor you will have always with you. 
Cultivate in them, while there is yet time, the utmost graces 
of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives so much in 
need of ornament ; or, in the day of your triumph, when 
romance is utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a 
bare existence stand face to face. Reality will take a wolfish 
turn, and make an end of you. 

Stephen worked the next day, and the next, uncheered by 
a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and 
goings as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land ; 
at the end of the third, his loom stood empty. 

He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the Bank, 
on each of the two first evenings ; and nothing had happened 
there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part 
of the engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this 
third and last night. 

There was the lady who had once kept Mr. Bounderby’s 
house, sitting at the first floor window as he had seen her 
before ; aiid there was the light porter, sometimes talking with 
her there, and sometimes looking over the blind below which 
had Bank upon it, and sometimes coming to the door and 
standing on the steps for a breath of air. When he first came 
out, Stephen thought h,e might be looking for him, and passed 
near, but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him 
slightly, and said nothing. 

Two hours were a long stretch of lounging about, after a 
long day’s labor. Stephen sat upon the step of a door, leaned 


682 


HARD TIMES. 


against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened 
for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing 
in the street. Some purpose or other is so natural to every 
one, that a mere loiterer always looks and feels remarkable. 
When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to have an 
uncomfortabl'e sensation upon him of being for the time a dis- 
reputable character. 

Then came the lamplighter, and two lengthening lines of 
light all down the long perspective of the street, until they 
were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed 
the first floor window, drew do\<m the blind, and went up 
stairs. Presently, a light went up stairs after her, passing 
first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards the two staircase 
windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner of the second 
floor blind was disturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit’s eye. were there ; 
also the other corner, as if the light porter’s eye were on that 
side. Still, no communication was made to Stephen. Much 
relieved when the two hours were at last accomplished, he 
went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much 
loitering. 

He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie down 
on his temporary bed upon the floor ; for his bundle was 
made up for to-morrow, and all was arranged for his depart- 
ure. He meant to be clear of the town very early ; before 
the Hands were in the streets. 

It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look round 
his room, mournfully wondering whether he should ever see 
it again, he went out. The town was as entirely deserted as 
if the inhabitants had abandoned it, rather than hold com- 
munication with him. Everything looked wan at that hour. 
Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like 
a sad sea. 

By the place where Rachael lived, though it was not in 
his way ; by the red brick streets ; by the great silent factories, 
not trembling yet; by the railway, where the danger-lights 
were waning in the strengthening day; by the railway’s crazy 
neighborhood, half pulled down and half built up ; by scatter- 
ed red brick villas, where the besmoked evergreens were 
sprinkled with a dirty powder, like untidy snufi-takers ; by 
coal-dust paths and many varieties of ugliness; Stephen got 
to the top of the hill, and looked back. 

Day was shining radiantly upon the town then, and the 
bells- were going for the morning work. Domestic fires were 


GUNPOWDER. 


683 

not yet lighted, and the high chimneys had the sky to them- 
selves. Puffing out their poisonous volumes, they would not 
be long in hiding it ; but, for half an hour, some of the many 
windows were golden, which showed the Coketown people a 
sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of smoked glass. 

So strange to turn from the chimneys to the birds. So 
strange to have the road-dust on his feet instead of the coal- 
grit. So strange to have lived to this time of life, and yet to 
be beginning like a boy this summer morning ! With these 
musings in his mind, and his bundle under his arm, Stephen 
took his attentive face along the high road. And the trees 
arched over him, whispering that he left a true and loving 
heart behind. 


CHAPTER VII. 

GUNPOWDER. 

Mr. James Harthouse, ‘‘going in ” for his adopted party, 
soon began to score. With the aid of a little more coaching 
for the political sages, a little more genteel listnessness for the 
general society, and a tolerable management of the assumed 
honesty in dishonesty, most effective and most patronized 
of the polite deadly sins, he speedily came to be considered 
of much promise. The not being troubled with earnestness 
was a grand point in his favor, enabling him to take to the 
hard Fact fellows with as good a grace as if he had been born 
one of the tribe, and to throw all other tribes overboard, as 
conscious hypocrites. 

“ Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs. Bounderby, and 
who do not believe themselves. The only difference between 
us and the professors of virtue or benevolence, or philan- 
thropy — never mind the name — is, that we know it is all 
meaningless, and say so ; while they know it equally and will 
never say so.’’ 

Why should she be shocked or warned by this re-iteration ? 
It was not so unlike her father’s principles, and her early 
training, that it need startle her. Where was the great differ- 
ence-between. . the. two schools,, 'vyhen .each chained her down 


684 


/zTAJ^jD times. 


to material realities, and inspired her with no faith in any- 
thing else ? What was there in her soul for James Harthouse 
to destroy, which Thomas Gradgrind had nurtured there in its 
state of innocence ! 

It was even the worse for her at this pass, that in her 
mind — implanted there before her eminently practical father 
began to form it — a struggling disposition to believe in a 
wider and nobler humanity than she had ever heard of, con- 
stantly strove with doubts and resentments. With doubts, 
because the aspiration had been so laid waste in her youth. 
With resentments, because of the wrong that had been done 
her, if it were indeed a whisper of the truth. Upon a nature 
long accustomed to self-suppression, thus torn and divided, 
the Harthouse philosophy came as a relief and justification. 
Everything being hollow and worthless, she had missed noth- 
ing and sacrificed nothing. What did it matter, she had said 
to her father, when he proposed her husband. What did it 
matter, she said still. With a scornful self-reliance, she 
asked herself. What did anything matter — and went on. 

Towards what ? Step by step, onward and downward, 
towards some end, yet so gradually, that she believed herself 
to remain motionless. As to Mr. Harthouse, whither he 
tended, he neither considered nor cared. He had no particu- 
lar design or plan before him : no energetic wickedness 
ruffled his lassitude. He was as much amused and interested, 
at present, as it became so fine a gentleman to be ; perhaps 
even more than it would have been consistent with his repu- 
tation to confess. Soon after his arrival he languidly wrote 
to his brother, the honorable and jocular member, that the 
Bounderbys were great fun ; ’’ and further, that the female 
Bounderby, instead of being the Gorgon he had expected, 
was young, and remarkably pretty. After that, he wrote no 
more about them, and devoted his leisure chiefly to their 
house. He was very often in their house, in his flittings and 
visitings about the Coke town district ; and was much encour- 
aged by Mr. Bounderby. It was quite in Mr. Bounderby’s 
gusty way to boast to all his world that he didn’t care about 
your highly connected people, but that if his wife Tom Grad- 
grind’s daughter did, she was welcome to their company. 

Mr. James Harthouse began to think it would be a new 
sensation, if the face which changed so beautifully for the 
whelp, would change for him. 

He was quick enough to observe ; he had a good memory, 


GUNPO WDER. 


685 

and did not forget a word of the brother’s revelations. He 
interwove them with everything he saw of the sister, and he 
began to understand her. To be sure, the better and pro- 
founder part of her character was not within his scope of per- 
ception ; for in natures, as in seas, depth answers unto depth \ 
but he soon began to read the rest with a student’s eye. 

Mr. Bounderby had taken possession of a house and 
grounds, about fifteen miles from the town, and accessible 
within a mile or two, by a railway striding on many arches 
over a wild country, undermined by deserted coal-shafts, and 
spotted at night by fires and black shapes of stationary en- 
gines at pits’ mouths. This country, gradually softening to- 
wards the neighborhood of Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, there 
mellowed into a rustic landscape, golden with heath, and 
snowy with hawthorn in the spring of the year, and tremulous 
with leaves and their shadows all the summer time. The 
bank had foreclosed a mortgage effected on the property thus 
pleasantly situated, by one of the Coketown magnates, who, 
in his determination to make a shorter cut than usual to an 
enormous fortune, overspeculated himself by about two hun- 
dred thousand pounds. These accidents did sometimes hap- 
pen in the best regulated families of Coketown, but the bank- 
rupts had no connection whatever with the improvident 
classes. 

It afforded Mr. Bounderby supreme satisfaction to instal 
himself in this snug little estate, and with demonstrative 
humility to grow cabbages in the flower garden. He delighted 
to live, barrack-fashion, among the elegant furniture, and he 
bullied the very pictures with his origin. ‘‘ Why, sir,” he 
would say to a visitor, “ I am told that Nickits,” the late 
owner, “gave seven hundred pound for that Seabeach. Now, 
to be plain with you, if I ever, in the whole course of my life, 
take seven looks at it, at a hundred pound a look, it will be 
as much as I shall do. No, by George ! I don’t forget that 
I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. For years upon years, 
the only pictures in my possession, or that I could have got 
into my possession, by any means, unless I stole ’em, were 
the engravings of a man shaving himself in a boot, on the 
blacking bottles that I was overjoyed to use in cleaning boots 
with, and that I sold when they were empty for a farthings 
a-piece, and glad to get it ! ” 

Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in the same style. 

“ Harthouse, have you a couple of horses down here. 


686 


HARD TIMES. 


Bring half a dozen more if you like, and we’ll find room for 
’em. There’s stabling in this place for a dozen horses ; and 
unless Nickits is belied, he kept the full number. A round 
dozen of ’em, sir. When that man was a boy, he went to 
Westminster School. Went to Westminster School as a 
King’s Scholar, when I was principally living on garbage, and 
sleeping in market baskets. Why, if I wanted to keep a dozen 
horses — which I don’t, for one’s enough for me — I couldn’t 
bear to see ’em in their stalls here, and think what my own 
lodging used to be. I couldn’t look at ’em, sir, and not order 
’em out. Yet so things come round. You see this place ; 
you know what sort of a place it is ; you are aware that there’s 
not a completer place of its size in this kingdom or elsewhere 
— I don’t care where — and here, got into the middle of it, 
like a maggot into a nut, is Josiah Eounderby. While Nick- 
its (as a man came into my office, and told me yesterday), 
Nickits, who used to act in Latin, in the Westminster School 
plays, with the chief-justices and nobility of this country ap- 
plauding him till they were black in the face, is drivelling at 
this minute — drivelling, sir ! — in a fifth floor, up a narrow 
dark back street in Antwerp.” 

It was among the leafy shadows of this retirement, in the 
long sultry summer days, that Mr. Harthouse began to prove 
the face which had set him wondering when he first saw it, 
and try if it would change for him. 

‘‘ Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most fortunate accident 
that I find you alone here. I have had for some time a pap 
ticular wish to speak to you.” 

It was not by any wonderful accident that he found her, 
the time of day being that at which she was always alone, and 
the place being her favorite resort. It was an opening in a 
dark wood, where some felled trees lay, and where she would 
sit watching the fallen leaves of last year, as she had watched 
the falling ashes at home. 

He sat down beside her, with a glance at her face. 

‘‘ Your brother. My young friend Tom — ” 

Her color brightened, and she turned to him with a looK 
of interest. I never in my life,” he thought, “ saw anything 
so* remarkable and so captivating as the lighting of those 
^features ! ” His face betrayed his thoughts — perhaps without 
betraying him, for it might have been according to its instruc- 
tions so to do. 

“ Pardon me. The expression of vour sisterly interest is 


C C/A 'PO VVDER. 68 7 

SO beautiful. Tom should be so proud of it — I know this is 
inexcusable, but I am so, compelled to admire.” 

Being so impulsive,” she said composedly. 

Mrs. Bounderby, no ; you know I make no pretence with 
you. You know I am a sordid piece of human nature, ready 
to sell myself at any time for any reasonable sum, and alto- 
gether incapable of any Arcadian proceeding whatever.” 

I am waiting,” she returned, ‘‘for your further reference 
to my brother.” 

“You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. I am as worth 
less a dog as you will find, except that I am not false — not 
false. But you surprised and started me from my subject, 
which was your brother, I have an interest in him.” 

“ Have you an interest in anything, Mr.- Harthouse ? ” 
she asked half incredulously and half gratefully. 

“ If you had asked me when I first came here, I should 
have said no. I must say now — even at the hazard of appear- 
ing to make a pretence, and of justly awakening your incre- 
dulity — yes.” 

She made a slight movement, as if she were trying to 
speak, but could not find voice ; at length she said, “ Mr. 
Harthouse, I give you credit for being interested in my 
brother.” 

“ Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You know how little 
I do claim, but I will go that length. You have done so much 
for him, you are so fond of him ; your whole life, Mrs. Bound- 
erby, expresses such charming self-forgetfulness on his ac- 
count — pardon me again — I am running wide of the subject. 
I am Interested in him for his own sake.” 

She had made the slightest action possible, as if she would 
have risen in a hurry and gone away. He had turned the 
course of what he said at that instant, and she remained. 

“ Mrs. Bounderby,” he resumed, in a lighter manner, and 
yet with a show of effort in assuming it, which was even more 
expressive than the manner he dismissed ; “ it is no irrevoca- 
ble offence in a young fellow of your brother’s years, if he is 
heedless, inconsiderate, and expensive — a little dissipated, in 
the common phrase. Is he ? ” 

“Yes.^*” 

“ Allow me to be frank. Do you think he games at all ? ” 

“ I think he makes bets.” Mr. Harthouse waiting as if that 
were not her whole answer, she added, “ I know he does.” 

“ Of course he loses ? ” 


688 


/7A/CD TIMES. 


Yes.’’ 

“ Everybody does lose wlio bets. May I hint at the proba- 
bility of your sometimes supplying him with money for these 
purposes 1 ” 

She sat, looking down ; but, at this question, raised her 
eyes searchingly and a little resentfully. 

‘‘ Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my dear Mrs. Bound- 
erby. I think Tom may be gradually falling into trouble, and 
I wish to stretch out a helping hand to him from the depths 
of my wicked experience. — Shall I say again, for his sake ? 
Is that necessary ? ” 

She seemed to try to answer, but nothing came of it. 

“ Candidly to confess everything that has occurred to me,” 
said James Harthouse, again gliding with the same appear- 
ance of effort into his more airy manner ; I will confide to 
you my doubt whether he has had many advantages. Whether 
— forgive my plainness — whether any great amount of confi- 
dence is likely to have been established between himself and 
his most worthy father.” 

“ I do not,” said Louisa, flushing with her own great re- 
membrance in that wise, “ think it likely.” 

Or, between himself, and — I may trust to your under- 
standing of my meaning, I am sure — and his highly esteemed 
brother-in-law.” 

She flushed deeper and deeper, and was burning red when 
she replied in a fainter voice, ‘‘ I do not think that likely, 
either.” 

Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, after a short silence, 
may there be a better confidence between yourself and me ? 
Tom has borrowed a considerable sum of you ? ” 

You will understand, Mr. Harthouse,” she returned, 
after some indecision : she had been more or less uncertain, 
and troubled throughout the conversation, and yet had in the 
main preserved her self-contained manner ; you will under- 
stand that if I tell you what you press to know, it is not by 
way of complaint or regret. I would never complain of any- 
thing, and what I have done I do not in the least regret.” 

“ So spirited, too ! ” thought James Harthouse. 

“ When I married, I found that my brother was even at 
that time heavily in debt. Heavily for him, I mean. Heavily 
enough to oblige me to sell some trinkets. They were no 
sacrifice. I sold them very willingly. I attached no value to 
them. They were quite worthless to me.” 


GUArpoiVDEI^. 


689 

Either she saw in his face that he knew, or she only feared 
in her conscience that he knew, that she spoke of some of her 
husband’s gifts. She stopped, and reddened again. If he 
had not known it before, he would have known it then, though 
he had been a much duller man than he was. 

‘‘ Since then, I have given my brother, at various timbs, 
what money I could spare : in short, what money I have had. 
Confiding in you at all, on the faith of the interest you pro- 
fess for him, I will not do so by halves. Since you have been 
in the habit of visiting here, he has wanted in one sum as 
much as a hundred pounds. I have* not been able to give it 
to him. I have felt uneasy for the consequences of his being 
so involved, but I have kept these secrets until now, when I 
trust them to your honor. I have held no confidence with 
any one, because — you anticipated my reason just now.” She 
abruptly broke off. 

He was a ready man, and he saw, and seized, -an oppor- 
tunity here of presenting her own image to her, slightly dis- 
guised as her brother. 

‘‘Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person, of the 
world worldly, I feel the utmost interest, I assure you, in what 
you tell me. I cannot possibly be hard upon your brother. 
I understand and share the wise consideration with which you 
regard his errors. With all possible respect both for Mr. 
Gradgrind and for Mr. Bounderby, I think I perceive that he 
has not been fortunate in his training. Bred at a disadvan- 
tage towards the society in which he has his part to play, he 
rushes into these extremes for himself, from opposite extremes 
that have long been forced — with the very best intentions we 
have no doubt — upon him. Mr. Bounderby’s fine bluff 
English independence, though a most charming characteristic, 
does not — as we have agreed — invite confidence. If I might 
venture to remark that it is the least in the world deficient in 
that delicacy to which a youth mistaken, a character miscon- 
ceived, and abilities misdirected, would turn for relief and 
guidance, I should express what it presents to my own view.” 

As she sat looking straight before her, across the changing 
lights upon the grass into the darkness of the wood beyond, 
he saw in her face her ajDplication of his very distinctly uttered 
words. 

“ All allowance,” he continued, “ must be made. I have 
one great fault to find with Tom, however, which I cannot for^ 
give, and for which I take him heavily to account.” 


690 


HAJ^D TIMES. 


Louisa turned her eyes to his face, and asked him what 
fault was that ? 

‘‘ Perhaps,” he returned, I have said enough. Perhaps 
it would have been better on the whole, if no allusion to it had 
escaped me.” 

You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse, Pray let me know it.” 

‘^To relieve you from needless apprehension — and as this 
confidence regarding your brother, which I prize I am sure 
above all possible things, has been established between us — 
I obey. I cannot forgive him for not being more sensible in 
every word, look, and act of his life, of the affection of his 
best friend ; of the devotion of his best friend ; of her unsel- 
fishness ; of her sacrifice. The return he makes her, within 
my observation, is a very poor one. What she has done for 
him demands his constant love and gratitude, not his ill- 
humor and caprice. Careless fellow as I am, I am not so 
indifferent, Mrs. Bounderby, as to be regardless of this vice 
in your brother, or inclined to consider it a venial offence.” 

The wood floated before her, for her eyes were suffused with 
tears. They rose from a deep well, long concealed, and her 
heart was filled with acute pain that found no relief in them. 

“ In a word, it is to correct your brother in this, Mrs. 
Bounderby, that I must aspire. My better knowledge of his 
circumstances, and my direction and advice in extricating 
them — rather valuable, I hope, as coming from a scapegrace 
on a much larger scale — will give me some influence over him, 
and all I gain I shall certainly use towards this end. I have 
said enough, and more than enough. I seem to be protest- 
ing that I am a sort of good fellow, when, upon my honor, I 
have not the least intention to make any protestation to that 
effect, and openly announce that I am nothing of the sort. 
Yonder, among the trees,” he added, having lifted up his eyes 
and looked about ; for he had watched her closely until now ; 

is your brother himself ; no doubt, just comedown. As. he 
seems to be loitering in this direction, it may be as well, per- 
haps, to walk towards him, and throw ourselves in his way. 
He has been very silent and doleful of late. Perhaps, his 
brotherly conscience is touched — if there are such things as 
consciences. Though, upon my honor, I hear of them much 
too often to believe in them.” 

He assisted her to rise, and she took his arm, and they ad- 
vanced to meet the whelp. He was idly beating the branches 
as he lounged along : or he stooped viciously to rip the 


GUNPOWDER. 


691 

moss from the trees with his stick. He was startled when 
they came upon him while he was engaged in this latter pas- 
time, and his color changed. 

“ Halloa ! ” he stammered ; ‘‘ I didn’t know you were 
here.” 

Whose name, Tom,” said Mr. Harthouse, putting his 
hand upon his shoulder and turning him, so that they all three 
walked towards the house together, “ have you been carving 
on the trees ? ” 

Whose name ? ” returned Tom. Oh ! You mean what 
girl’s name ? ” 

‘‘ You have a suspicious appearance of inscribing some fair 
creature’s on the bark, Tom.” 

“ Not much of that, Mr. Harthouse, unless some fair crea- 
ture with a slashing fortune at her own disposal would take a 
fancy to me. Or she might be as ugly as she was rich, with- 
out any fear of losing me. I’d carve her name as often as she 
liked.” 

“ I am afraid you are mercenary, Tom.” 

“ Mercenary,” repeated Tom. ‘‘ Who is not mercenary ? 
Ask my sister.” 

“ Have you so proved it to be a failing of mine, Tom 1 ” 
said Louisa, showing no other sense of his discontent and ill 
nature. 

“You know whether the cap fits you. Loo,” returned her 
brother sulkily. “ If it does, you can wear it.” 

“ Tom is misanthropical to-day, as all bored people are 
now and. then,” said Mr. Harthouse. “Don’t believe him, 
Mrs. Bounderby. He knows much better. I shall disclose 
some of his opinions of you, privately expressed to me> unless 
he relents a little.” 

“ At all events, Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom, softening in 
his admiration of his patron, but shaking h‘s head sullenly 
too, “ you can’t tell her that I ever praised her for being mer- 
cenary. I may have praised her for being the contrary, and 
I should do it again, if I had as good reason. However, 
never mind this now ; it’s not very interesting to you, and I 
am sick of the subject.” 

They walked on to the house, where Louisa quitted her 
visitor’s arm and went in. He stood looking after her, as she 
ascended the steps, and passed into the shadow of the door ; 
then put his hand upon her brother’s shoulder again, and in- 
vited him with a confidential nod to a walk in the garden. 


//A7^D TIMES. 


692 


‘‘Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a word with you.’^ 

They had stopped among a disorder of roses — it was part 
of Mr. Bounderby^s humility to keep Nickit’s roses on a re 
duced scale — and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, pluck- 
ing buds, and picking them to pieces ; while his powerful 
Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon the parapet, and 
his figure easily resting on the arm supported by that knee. 
They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw 
them. 

“ Tom, what’s the matter ? ” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom with a groan, “ I am 
hard up, and bothered out of my life.” 

“ My good fellow, so am I.” 

“ You !” returned Tom. “You are the picture of inde- 
pendence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You 
have no idea what a state I have got myself into — what a 
state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only 
have done it.” 

He took to biting the rose-buds now, and tearing them 
away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm 
old man’s. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his 
companion relapsed into his lightest air. 

“ Tom, you are inconsiderate : you expect too much of 
your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know 
you have.” 

“ Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I 
to get it ? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting that at my 
age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that 
sort. Here’s my father, drawing what he calls a line, and 
tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here’s my 
mother, who never has anything of her own, except her com- 
plaints. What IS a fellow to do for money, and where am I 
to look for it, if not to my sister ? ” 

He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by 
dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat. 

“ But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it — ” 

“ Not got it, Mr. Harthouse ? I don’t say she has got it. 
I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But 
then she ought to get it. She could get it. It’s of no use 
pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have 
told you already ; you know she didn’t marry old Bounderby 
for her sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why 
doesn’t she get what I want, out of him, for my sake } She is 


GUNPOWDER. 


693 

not obliged to say what she is going to do with it ; she is 
sharp enough ; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she 
chose. Then why doesn’t she choose, when I tell her of 
what consequence it is ? But no. There she sits in his com- 
pany like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable, and 
getting it easily. I don’t know what you may call this, but 1 
call it unnatural conduct.” 

There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below 
the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Hart- 
house had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas 
Gradgrind Junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened 
to pitdi their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved 
his easy attitude ; and nothing more solid went over the stone 
balustrades than the accumulated rose-buds now floating 
about, a little surface-island. 

My dear Tom,” said Harthouse, “ let me try to be your 
banker.” 

For God’s sake,” returned Tom, suddenly, ‘‘ don’t talk 
about bankers ! ” And very white he looked, in contrast with 
the roses. Very white. 

Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well bred man, accus- 
tomed to the best society, was not to be surprised — he could 
as soon have been affected — but he raised his eyelids a little 
more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. 
Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to 
wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind Col- 
lege. 

“ What is the present need, Tom ? Three figures ? Out 
with them. Say what they are.” 

“Mr. Harthouse,” returned Tom, now actually crying; 
and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a 
figure he made ; “ it’s too late ; the money’s of no use to me 
at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. 
But I am very much obliged to you ; you’re a true friend.” 

A true friend ! “ Whelp, whelp ! ” thought Mr. Harthouse, 

lazily ; “ what an Ass you are ! ” 

“ And I take your offer as a great kindness,” said Tom, 
grasping his hand. “ As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse.” 

“ Well,” returned the other, “ it may be of more use by 
and by. And my good fellow, if you will open your bedevil- 
ments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you 
better ways out of them than you can find for yourself.” 

“ Thank you,’' said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and 


//AA^n TIMES. 


694 

chewing rosebuds. I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. 
Harthouse.” 

“Now, you see, Tom,” said Mr. Harthduse in conclusion, 
himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the 
island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it wanted to 
become a part of the mainland : “ every man is selfish in 
everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fel- 
low creatures. I am desperately intent ; ” the languor of his 
desperation became quite tropical ; “ on your softening 
towards your sister — which you ought to do ; and on your be- 
ing a more loving and agreeable sort of brother — which you 
ought to be.” 

“ I will be, Mr. Harthouse.” 

“No time like the present, Tom ; begin at once.” 

“ Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so.” 

“ Having made which bargain, Tom,” said Harthouse, 
clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him 
at liberty to infer — as he did, poor fool — that this condition 
was imposed upon him in mere careless good-nature to lessen 
his sense of obligation, “ we will tear ourselves asunder until 
dinner time.” 

When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind 
seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert ; and he ap- 
peared before Mr. Bounderby came in. “ I didn’t mean to be 
cross. Loo,” he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. 
“ I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you.” 

After this there was a smile upon Louisa’s face that day, 
for some one else. Alas, for some one else ! 

“ So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she 
cares for,” thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection 
of his first day’s knowledge of her pretty face. “ So much 
the less, so much the less.” 


CHAPTER VIIL 

EXPLOSION. 


The next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and 
James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay 


EXl’LOSIOiV. 


695 

window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that 
had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Re- 
posing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe 
about him, alTd the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so 
rich and soft with summer odors, he reckoned up his advan- 
tages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not 
at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. 

He had established a confidence with her, from which her 
husband was excluded. He had established a confidence 
with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference 'towards 
her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any 
congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly 
assured her, that he knew her heart in its last most delicate 
recesses ; he had come so near to her through its tenderest 
sentiment ; he had associated himself with that feeling ; and 
the barrier behind which she lived, had melted away. . All 
very odd, and very satisfactory ! 

And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of 
purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better 
for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom 
he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and pur- 
poseless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current 
anywhere, that wreck the ships. 

When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth 
about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are 
attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, 
according to the mode : when he is aweary of vice, and aweary 
of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used „up as to bliss \ 
then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the 
kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. 

So, James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently 
smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road 
by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it 
led was before him, pretty plainly ; but he troubled himself 
with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. 

As he had rather a long ride to take that day — for there 
was a public occasion ‘‘ to do ” at some distance, which 
afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind 
men — he dressed early, and went dowm to breakfast. He was 
anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. 
No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look 
of interest for him again. 

He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own 


//AJ^n TIMES. 


696 

satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing cir- 
cumstances • and came riding back at six o’clock. There was 
a sweep of some half mile between the lodge and the house, 
and he was riding along at afoot pace over the ^ooth gravel, 
once Nickits’s, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrub- 
bery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the 
road. 

‘‘ Harthouse ! ” cried Mr. Bounderby. “ Have you heard } ” 

‘‘ Heard what ? ” said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and 
inwardly favoring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. 

“ Then you have7i^t heard ! 

“ I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard 
nothing else.” 

Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre 
of the path before the horse’s head, to explode his bombshell 
with more effect. 

‘‘ The Bank’s robbed ! ” 

“ You don’t mean it ! ” 

“ Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary 
manner. Robbed with a false key.” 

‘‘ Of much ” 

Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, 
really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, Why, no ; 
not of very much. But it might have been.” 

— “ Of how much ? 

“ Oh ! as a sum — if you stick to a sum — of not more than 
a hundred and fifty pound,” said Bounderby, with impatience. 
“ But it’s not the sum ; it’s the fact. It’s the fact of the Bank 
being robbed, that’s the important circumstance. I am sur- 
prised you don’t see it.” 

“ My dear Bounderby,” said James, dismounting, and 
giving his bridle to his servant, ‘‘ I do see it ; and am as over- 
come as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle 
afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, 
I hope, to congratulate you — which I do with all my soul, I 
assure you — on your not having sustained a greater loss.” 

“ Thank’ee,” replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious 
manner. “ But I tell you what. It might have been twenty 
thousand pound.” 

“ I suppose it might.” 

“ Suppose it might ! By the Lord, you may suppose so. 
By George ! ” said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods 
and shakes of his head. It might have been twice twenty. 


EXPLOSION. 


697 

There^s no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn^t 
have been, as it was, but for the fellow’s being disturbed.” 

Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer. 

“ Here’s ^om Gradgrind’s daughter knows pretty well 
what it might have been, if you don’t,” blustered Bounderby. 
‘‘ Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told her ! Never 
knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the 
circumstances, in my opinion ! ” 

She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged 
her to take his arm ; and as they moved on very slowly, asked 
her how the robbery had been committed. 

“ Why, I am going to tell you,” said Bounderby, irritably 
giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. ‘‘ If you hadn’t been so 
mighty particular about the sum, I should have begun to tell 
you before. You know this lady (for she is a lady), Mrs. 
Sparsit ? ” 

“ I have already had the honor” — 

“ Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him 
too on the same occasion ? ” Mr. Harthouse inclined his head 
in assent, and Bitzer knuckled his forehead. 

“ Very well. They live at the Bank. You know they live 
at the Bank, perhaps } Very well. Yesterday afternoon, at 
the close of business hours, everything was put away as usual. 
In the iron room that this young fellow sleeps outside of, 
there was — never mind how much. In the little safe in young 
Tom’s closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there was a 
hundred and fifty odd pound.” 

“ A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,” said Bitzer. 

‘‘ Come ! ” retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel round 
upon him, “ let’s have none of your interruptions. It’s enough 
to be robbed while you’re snoring because you’re too com- 
fortable, without being put right with your four seven ones. I 
didn’t snore, myself, when I was your age, let me tell you. I 
hadn’t victuals enough to snore. And I didn’t four seven one. 
Not if I knew it.” 

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, 
and seemed at once particularly impressed and depressed by 
the instance last given of Mr. Bounderby’s moral abstinence. 

“ A hundred and fifty odd pound,” resumed Mr. Bounder^ 
by. “That sum of money, young Tom locked in his safe, not 
a very strong safe, but that’s no matter now. Everything was 
left, all right. Some time in the night, while this young fellow 
snored — Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, you say you have heard him 
snore ” 


6gS 


HARD TIMES. 


“ Sir/’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, I cannot say that I have 
heard him precisely snore, and therefore must not make that 
statement. But on winter evenings, when he has fallen asleep 
at his table, I have heard him, what I should prefer to describe 
as partially choke. I have heard him on such occasions pro- 
duce sounds of a nature similar to what may be sometimes 
heard in Dutch clocks. Not,” said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty 
sense of giving strict evidence, “that I would convey any im- 
putation on his moral character. Far from it. I have always 
considered Bitzer a young man of the most upright principle ; 
and to that I beg to bear my testimony.” 

“Well ! ” said the exasperated Bounderby, “while he was 
snoring, or choking, or Dutch-clocking, or something or other 
— being. asleep— some fellows, somehow, whether previously 
concealed in the house or not remains to be seen, got to young 
Tom’s safe, forced it, and abstracted the contents. Being then 
disturbed, they made off ; letting themselves out at the main 
door, and double-locking it again (it was double-locked, and 
the key under Mrs. Sparsit’s pillow) with a false key, which 
was picked up in the street near the Bank, about twelve 
o’clock to-day. No alarm takes place, till this chap, Bitzer, 
turns out this morning, and begins to open and prepare the 
office for business. Then, looking at Tom’s safe, he sees the 
door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and the money gone.” 

“Where is Tom, by the bye ? ” asked Flarthouse, glancing 
round. 

“ He has been helping the police,” said Bounderby, “ and 
stays behind at the Bank. I wish these fellows had tried to 
rob me when I was at his time of life. They would have been 
out of pocket if they had invested eighteenpence in the job ; 
I can tell ’em that.” 

“ Is anybody suspected ? ” 

“ Suspected ? I should think there was somebody sus- 
pected. Egod ! ” said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit’s 
arm to wipe his heated head. “ Josiah Bounderby of Coke- 
town is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank 
you ! ” 

Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected ? 

“ Well,” said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to 
confront them all, “ I’ll tell you. It’s not to be mentioned 
everywhere ; it’s not to be mentioned anywhere : in order that 
the scoundrels concerned (there’s a gang of ’em) maybe thrown 
off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit” 


EXPLOSION. 


699 

Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. “ What should you 
say to j here he violently exploded : ‘‘to a Hand being in 
it?’^ 

“ I hope,” said Harthouse, lazily, “ not our friend. Black- 
pot 'I ” 

“ Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,” returned Bounderby, “ and 
that’s the man.” 

Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and sur- 
prise. 

“ O yes ! I know ! ” said Bounderby, immediately catching 
at the sound. “ I know ! I am used to that. I know all about 
it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. 
They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want 
to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell 
you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I’ll show you a 
man that’s fit for anything bad, I don’t care what it is.” 

Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some 
pains had been taken to disseminate — and which some people 
really believed. 

“ But I am acquainted with these chaps,” said Bounderby. 
“ I can read ’em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I ap- 
peal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first 
time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his 
visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor 
the Established Church 'i Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high con- 
nections, you are on a level with the aristocracy, — did I say, 
or did I not say, to that fellow, ‘ you can’t hide the truth from 
me : you are not the kind of fellow I like ; you’ll come to no 
good ” 

“ Assuredly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “ you did, in a 
highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition.” 

“ When he shocked you, ma’jTm,” said Bounderby ; “ when 
he shocked your feelings ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of 
her head, “ he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to 
say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points — more 
foolish if the term is preferred — than they might have been, if 
I had always occupied my present position.” 

Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Hart- 
house, as much as to say, “ I am the proprietor of this female, 
and she’s worth your attention, I think.” Then, resumed his 
discourse. 

“You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to 


HARD TIMES. 


700 

him when you saw him. I didn’t mince the matter with him. 
I am never mealy with ’em. I know ’em. Very well, sir. 
Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows 
where : as my mother did in my infancy — only with this 
difference, that he is a worse subject- than my mother, if pos- 
sible. What did he do before he went ? What do you say ; ” 
Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon 
the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it 
were a tambourine ; “ to his being seen — night after night — • 
watching the Bank .? — to his lurking about there — after dark ? 
— 'Fo its striking Mrs. Sparsit — that he could be lurking for no 
good — To her calling Bitzer’s attention to him, and their both 
taking notice of him — And to its appearing on inquiry to-day 
— that he was also noticed by the neighbors ? ” Having come 
to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his 
tambourine on his head. 

‘^Suspicious,” said James Harthouse, “certainly.” 

“ I think so, sir,” said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. “ I 
think so. *But there are more of ’em in it. There’s an old 
woman. One never hears of these things till the mischief’s 
done ; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door 
after the horse is stolen ; there’s an old woman turns up now. 
An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a 
broomstick, every now and then. She watches the place a 
whole day before this fellow begins, and on the night when 
you saw him, she steals away with him, and holds a council 
with him — I suppose, to make her report on going off duty, 
and be damned to her.” 

There was such a person in the room that night, and she 
shrunk from observation, thought Louisa. 

“ This is not all of ’em, even as we already know ’em,” 
said Bounderby, with many ffods of hidden meaning. “ But 
I have said enough for the present. You’ll have the good- 
ness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no one. It may take 
time, but we shall have ’em. It’s policy to give ’em line 
enough, and there’s no objection to that.” 

“ Of course, they will be punished with the utmost rigor of 
the law, as notice-boards olpserve,” replied James Harthouse, 
“ and serve them right. Fellows who go in for Banks must 
take the consequences. If there were no consequences, we 
should all go in for Banks.” He had gently taken Louisa’s 
parasol from her hand, and put it up for her ; and she walked 
under its shade, though the sun did not shine there. 


EXPLOSION, 


701 


For the present, Loo Bonn derby,” said her husband, 
‘‘here’s Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves 
have been acted upon by this business, and she’ll stay here a 
day or two. So, make her comfortable.” 

“Thank you very much, sir,” that discreet lady observed, 
“ but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Any- 
thing will do for Me.” 

It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her 
association with that domestic establishment, it was that she 
was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of 
others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, 
she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest 
the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night 
on the mangle in the laundry. True, the -Powlers and . the 
Scadgerses were accustomed to splendor, “ but it is my duty 
to remember,” Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty 
grace : particularly when any of the domestics were present, 
“that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed,” said she, “ if I 
could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Sparsit 
was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers 
family j or if I could even revoke the fact, and make myself a 
person of common descent and ordinary connections \ I would 
gladly do so. I should think it, under existing circumstances, 
right to do so.” The same Hermitical state of mind led to 
her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until 
fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to make them ; when 
she said, “Indeed you are very good, sir;” and departed 
from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and 
public announcement, to “ wait for the simple mutton.” She 
was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt ; and, feel- 
ing amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest 
extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasion- 
ally sat back in her chair and silently wept ; at which periods 
a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be 
observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) 
sliding down her Roman nose. 

But, Mrs. Sparsit’s greatest point, first and last, was her 
determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions 
when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake 
her head, as who would say, “ Alas poor Yorick ! ” After 
allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emo- 
tion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fit- 
fully cheerful, and would say, “You have still good spirits^ 


702 


HARD TIMES. 


sir, I am thankful to find ; ’’ and would appear to hail it as a 
blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. 
One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it 
excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propen- 
sity to call Mrs. Bounderby “Miss Gradgrind,’^ and yielded 
to it some three or four score times in the course of the even- 
ing. Hel: repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with 
modest confusion ; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural 
to say Miss Gradgrind : whereas, to persuade herself that the 
young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowingfrom 
a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found 
almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this re- 
markable case, that the more she thought about it, the more 
impossible it appeared 3 “ the differences,^’ she observed, 
“being such.” 

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried 
the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of 
the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sen- 
tenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That 
done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to rec- 
ommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. 

When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, 
“ Don’t be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I 
used to do.” Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations 
had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull- 
headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large 
sea-animal. “ I cannot bear to see you so, sir,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit. ‘“Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to 
do when I had the honor of living under your roof.” “ I 
haven’t played backgammon, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, 
“ since that time.” “ No, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, 
“ I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss 
Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be 
happy, sir, if you will condescend.” 

They played near a window, opening on the garden. It 
was a- fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. 
Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where 
their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what 
they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon 
board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows 
without. “ What’s the matter, ma’am ? ” said Mr. Bounderby \ 
“ you don’t see a Fire, do you ? ” “ Oh dear no, sir,” re- 

turned Mrs. Sparsit, “ I was thinking of the dew.” “ What 


EXPLOSION. 


703 


have you got to do with the dew, ma’am ? ” said Mr. Bounds 
erby. It’s not myself, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘ I am 
fearful of Miss Gradgrind’s taking cold.” ‘‘She never takes 
cold,” said Mr. Bounderby. “ Really, sir ? ” said Mrs. Spar- 
sit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. 

When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby 
took a glass of water. “ Oh, sir ? ” said Mrs. Sparsit. “Not 
your sherry warm, with lemon-peal and nutmeg?” “Why I 
have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma’am,” said Mr. 
Bounderby. “ The more’s the pity, sir,” returned Mr. Spar- 
sit ; “ you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir ! 
If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for 
you, as I have often done.” 

Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do any- 
thing she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, 
and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. “ It will do you good, sir. 
It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, 
and ought to take, sir.” And when Mr. Bounderby said, 
“ Your health, ma’am ! ” she answered with great feeling. 
“ Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also.” 
Finally, she wished him good-night, with great pathos ; and 
Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that 
he had been crossed in something tender, though he could 
not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. 

Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she 
watched and waited for her brother’s coming home. That 
could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight ; but 
in the country silence, which did anything but calm the 
trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when 
the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken 
one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as 
though she would have been glad that it rang on until day- 
light ; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread 
out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. 

She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. 
Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her 
room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother’s room. 
His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, 
approaching his bed with a noiseless step. 

She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his 
neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only 
feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. 

He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, 
and asked who that was, and what was the matter? 


704 


TIMES. 


“ Tom, have you anything to tell me ? If ever you loved 
me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one 
besides, tell it to me.’’ 

I don’t know what you mean. Loo. You have been 
dreaming.” 

‘‘ My dear brother : ” she laid her head down on his pih 
low, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him 
from every one but herself : ‘‘is there nothing that you have 
to tell me 1 Is there nothing you can tell me if you will ? 
You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell 
me the truth ! ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean. Loo ! ” 

“ As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, 
so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am 
living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, 
barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I 
lie through all the night of my decay ,'until I am dust. In the 
name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now ! ” 

“ What is it you want to know ? ” 

“ You may be certain ; ” in the energy of her love she took 
him to her bosom as if he were a child ; “ that I will not re- 
proach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate 
and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at 
whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me 'i 
Whisper very softly. Say only ‘yes,’ and I shall understand 
you!” 

She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly 
silent. 

“ Not a word, Tom ? ” 

“ How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don’t 
know what you mean ? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, 
worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But 
I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed.” 

“You are tired,” she whispered presently, more in her 
usual way. 

“ Yes, I am quite tired out.” 

“ You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have 
any fresh discoveries been made ? ” 

“ Only those you have heard of, from — him.” 

“ Tom, have you said to anyone that we made a visit to 
those people, and that we saw those three together ? ” 

“ No. Didn’t you yourself particularly ask me to keep it 
quiet when you asked me to go there with yon ? ” 


EXPLOSION. 


70s 

“ Yes. But I did not know then whai was going to hap- 
pen.” 

“ Nor I neither. How could I ? ” 

He was very quick upon her with this retort. 

‘‘ Ought I to say, after what has happened,” said his 
sister, standing by the bed — she had gradually withdrawn 
herself and risen, that I made that visit ? Should I say so? 
Must I say so ? ” 

“ Good Heavens, Loo,” returned her brother, “ you are not 
in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you 
keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to myselt If you disclose 
it, there’s an end of it.” 

It was too dark for either to see the . other’s face ; but 
each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. 

Tom, do you believe the man I gave the money to, is 
really implicated in this crime ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I don’t see why he shouldn’t be.” 

He seemed to me an honest man.” 

Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet not 
- be so.” 

There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopped. 

“ In short,” resumed Tom, as if he had made up his mind, 
if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from being alto- 
gether in his favor, that I took him outside the door to tell 
him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very 
well off to get such a windfall as he had got from my sister, and 
that I hoped he would make good use of it. You remember 
whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against the 
man ; he may be a very good fellow, for anything I know ; I 
hope he is.” 

Was he offended by what you said ? ” 

“ No, he took it pretty well ; he was civil enough. Where 
are you. Loo ? ” He sat up in bed and kissed her. “ Good- 
night, my dear, good-night ! ” 

You have nothing more to tell me ? ” 

No. What should I have ? You wouldn’t have me tell 
you a lie ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t have you do that to-night, Tom, of all the 
nights in your life : many and much happier as I hope they 
will be.” 

Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that I am 
sure I wonder I don’t say anything to get to sleep. Go to 
bed, go to bed.” 


7o6 


I/A/^n TIMES. 


Kissing her again, he turned round, drew the coverlet over 
his head, and lay as still as if that time had come by which 
she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bed- 
side before she slowly moved away. She stopped at the 
door, looked back when she had opened it, and asked him if 
he had called her 1 But he lay still, and she softly closed the 
door and returned to her room. 

Then the v/retched boy looked cautiously up and found 
her gone, crept out of bed, fastened his door, and threw him- 
self upon his pillow again ; tearing his hair, morosely crying, 
grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impenitently spurning 
himself, and no less hatefully and unproiitably spurning all 
the good in the world. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HEARING , THE LAST OF IT. 

Mrs. Sparsit, lying by to recover the tone of her 
nerves in Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, kept such a sharp look-out, 
night and day, under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, 
like a couple of' lighthouses on an iron-bound coast, might 
have warned all prudent mariners from that bold rock her 
Roman nose and the dark and craggy region in its neighbor- 
hood, but for the placidity of her manner. Although it was 
hard to believe that her retiring for the night could be any- 
thing but a form, so severely wide awake were those classical 
eyes of hers, and' so impossible did it seem that her rigid nose 
could yield to any relaxing influence, yet her manner of sitting, 
smoothing her uncomfortable, not to say, gritty mittens (they 
were constructed of a cool fabric like a meat-safe), or of 
ambling to unknown places of destination with her foot in her 
cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene, that most observers 
would have been constrained to suppose her a dove, embodied 
by some freak of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of 
the hook-beaked order. 

She was a most wonderful woman for prowling about the 
house. How she got from story to story was a mystery be- 
yond solution. A lady so decorous in herself, and so highly 
connected, was not to be suspected of dropping over the 


HEARING THE LAST OF IT, 


707 

banisters or sliding down them, yet her extraordinary facility 
of locomotion suggested the wild idea. Another noticeable 
circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was, that she was never hurried. 
She would shoot with consummate velocity from the roof to 
the hall, yet would be in full possession of her breath and 
dignity on the moment of her arrival there. Neither w^s she 
ever seen by human vision to go at a great pace. 

She took very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, and had some 
pleasant conversation with him soon after her arrival. She 
made him her stately curtsey in the garden, one morning be- 
fore breakfast. 

It appears but yesterday, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “ that 
I had the honor of receiving you at the Bank, when you were 
so good as to wish to be made acquainted with Mr. Bounder- 
by’s address.” 

An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgotten by myself 
in the course of Ages,” said Mr. Harthouse, inclining his 
head to Mrs. Sparsit with the most indolent of all possible 
airs. 

' “ We live in a singular world, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. 

I have had the honor, by a coincidence of which I am 
proud, to have made a remark, similar in effect, though not 
so epigrammatically expressed.” 

“ A singular world, I would say, sir,’' pursued Mrs. Sparsit; 
after acknowledging the compliment with a drooping of her 
dark eyebrows, not altogether so mild in its expression as her 
voice was in its dulcet tones ; as regards the intimacies we 
form at one time, with individuals we were quite ignorant of, 
at another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion you went so 
far as to say you were actually apprehensive of Miss Grad- 
grind.” 

“ Your memory does me more honor than my insignificance 
deserves. I avail myself of your obliging hints to correct my 
timidity, and it is unnecessary to add that they were perfectly 
accurate. Mrs. Sparsit’s talent for — in fact for anything re- 
quiring accuracy — with a combination of strength of mind — 
and Family— is too habitually developed to admit of any ques- 
tion.” He was almost falling asleep over this compliment ; 
it took him so long to get through, and his mind wandered so 
much in the coursq of its execution. 

“ You found Miss Gradgrind — I really cannot call her Mrs. 
Bounderby ; it’s very absurd of me — as youthful as I described 
her ? ” asked Mrs Sparsit sweetly. 


TIMES, 


*IqZ 

“ You drew her portrait perfectly,” said Mr. Harthouse. 

Presented her dead image.” 

“Very engaging, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. causing her mit- 
tens slowly to revolve over one another. ' 

“ Highly so.” 

“ It used to be considered,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “ that Miss 
Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but I confess she ap- 
pears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that re- 
spect. Ay, and indeed here is Mr. Bounderby ! ” cried Mrs. 
Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as if she had 
been talking and thinking of no one else. “ How do you find 
yourself this morning, sir ? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir.” 

Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and 
lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the 
effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards 
Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most other people 
from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with 
forced lightness of heart, “You want your breakfast, sir, but 
I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the 
table,” Mr. Bounderby replied, “ If I waited to be taken care 
of by my wife, ma’am, I. believe you know pretty well I should 
wait till Doomsday, so I’ll trouble you to take charge of the 
teapot.” Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position 
at table. 

This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. 
She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she 
rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place 
under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honor 
of making Mr. Boundery’s breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind 
— she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby — she 
hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, 
though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by — had 
assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) 
because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. 
Bounderby’s time was so very precious, and she knew it of 
old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, 
that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request ; 
long as his will had been a law to her. 

“There! Stop where you are, ma’am,” said Mr. Boiin- 
derby, “ stop where you are ! Mrs. Boupderby will be very 
glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe.” 

“ Don’t say that, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with 
severity, “because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby, 
And to be unkind is not to be you, sir.” 


HEARING THE LAST OF IT 


709 

‘‘You may set your mind at rest, ma’am. — You can take 
it very quietly, can’t you. Loo 't ” said Mr. Bounderby, in a 
blustering way to his wife. 

“ Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of 
any importance to me ? ” 

“ Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. 
Sparsit, ma’am ” said Mr. Bounderby, swelling, with a sense 
of slight. “ You attach too much importance to these things, 
ma’am. By George, you’ll be corrupted in some of your no- 
tions here. You are old-fashioned, ma’am. You are behind 
Tom Gradgrind’s children’s time.” 

“ What is the matter with you } ” asked Louisa, coldly 
surprised. “What has given you offence.^ ” 

“ Offence ! ” repeated Bounderby. “ Do you suppose if 
there was any offence given me, I shouldn’t name it, and re- 
quest to have it corrected ? I am a straight-forward man, I 
believe. I don’t go beating about for side-winds.” 

“ I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too dif- 
lident, or too delicate,” Louisa answered him composedly : 
“ I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or 
as a woman. I don’t understand what you would have.” 

“ Have } ” returned Mr. Bounderby. “ Nothing. Other- 
wise, don’t you. Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well, that 
1, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it ” 

She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the 
teacups ring, with a proud color in her face that was a new 
change, Mr. Harthouse thought. “ You are incomprehensible 
this morning,” said Louisa. “ Pray take no further trouble 
to explain yourself. I am not curious to know your meaning. 
What does it matter ? ” 

Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr. Harthouse 
was soon idly gay on indifferent subjects. But from this day, 
the Sparsit action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and 
James Harthouse more together, and strengthened the dan- 
gerous alienation from her husband and confidence against 
him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so fine 
that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she 
ever tried or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart. 

Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this particular occa- 
sion, that, assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, 
and being then alone with him in the hall, she imprinted a 
chaste kiss upon his hand, murmured “ My benefactor ! ” and 
retired, overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is an indubitable fact, 


710 


//AA^n TIMES. 


within the cognizance of this history, that five minutes aftci 
he had left the house in the self-same hat, the same descend- 
ant of the Scadgerses, and connection by matrimony of the 
Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his portrait, made a 
contemptuous grimace at that work of art, and said “ Serv^e 
you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it.’’ 

Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, when Bitzer ap- 
l^eared. Bitzer had come down by train, shrieking and rat- 
tling over the long line of arches that bestrode the wild coun- 
try of past and present coalpits, with an express from Stone 
Lodge. It was a hasty note to inform Louisa, that Mrs. Grad- 
grind lay very ill. She had never been well within her daugh- 
ter’s knowledge ; but she had declined within the last few 
days, had continued sinking all through the night, and was 
now as nearly dead, as her limited capacity of being in any 
state that implied the ghost of an intention to get out of it, 
allowed. 

Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit colorless servi- 
tor at Death’s door when Mrs. Gradgrind knocked, Louisa 
rumbled to Cbketown, over the coalpits past and present, and 
.was whirled into its smoky jaws. She dismissed the messen- 
ger to his own devices, and rode away to her old home. 

She had seldom been there since her marriage. Her father 
was usually siftii^g and sifting at his parliamentary cinder- 
heap in London (without being observed to turn up many 
precious articles among the rubbish), and was still hard at it in 
the national dust-yard. Her mother had taken it rather as a 
disturbance than otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined upon 
her sofa ; young people, Louisa felt herself all unfit for ; Sissy 
she had never softened to again, since the night when the 
stroller’s child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Bounderby’s 
intended wife. She had no inducements to go back, and had 
rarely gone. 

Neither, as she approached her old home now, did any of 
the best influences of old home descend upon her. The 
dreams of childhood — its airy fables ; its graceful, beautiful, 
humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond ; so good 
to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when out- 
grown, for then the least among them rises to the statue of a 
great Charity in the heart, suffering little children to come 
into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a gar- 
den in the stony ways of this world, wherein it were better for 
all the children of Adam that they should oftener sun them^ 


HE A RING THE LAST OF IT. 


711 

selves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise — what had 
she to do with these ? Remembrances of how she had jour^ 
eyed to the little that she knew, by the enchanted roads of 
what she and millions of innocent creatures had hoped and 
imagined \ of how, first coming upon Reason through the ten- • 
der light of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring 
to gods as great as itself : not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, 
with its victims bound hand to foot, and its big dumb shape 
set up with a sightless stare, never to be moved by anything 
but so many calculated tons of leverage — what had she to 
do with these ? Her remembrances of home and childhood 
were remembrances of the drying up of every spring and foun- 
tain in her young heart as it gushed out. The golden waters 
were not there. They were flowing for the fertilization of the 
land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from 
thistles. 

She went, with a heavy, hardened kind of sorrow upon her, 
into the house and into her mother’s room. Since the time 
of her leaving home. Sissy had lived with the rest of the family 
on equal terms. Sissy was at her mother’s side; and Jane, 
her sister, now ten or twelve years old, was in the room. 

There was great' trouble before it could be made known to 
Mrs. Gradgrind that her eldest child was there. She reclined, 
propped up, from mere habit, on a couch : as nearly in her 
old usual attitude, as anything so helpless could be kept in. 
She had positively refused to take to her bed ; on the ground 
that if she did, she would never hear the last of it. 

Her feeble voice sounded so far away in her bundle of 
shawls, and the sound of another voice addressing her seemed 
to take such a long time in getting down to her ears, that she 
might have been lying at the bottom of a well. The poor 
lady was nearer Truth than she ever had been : which had 
much to do with it. 

On being told that Mrs. Bounderby was there, she replied, 
at cross-purposes, that she had never called him by that name 
since he married Louisa ; that pending her choice of an objec- 
tionable name, she had called him J ; and that she could not 
at present depart from that regulation, not being yet provided 
with a permanent substitute. Louisa had sat by her for some 
minutes, and had spoken to her often, before she arrived at a 
clear understanding who it was. She then seemed to come 
to it all at once. 

“ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, “ and I hope you 


712 


//AA'D TIMES. 


are going on satisfactorily to yourself It was all your father’s 
doing. He sat his heart upon it. And he ought to know.” 

“ I want to hear of you, mother, not of myself.” 

“You want to hear of me, my dear ? That’s something 
new, I am sure, when anybody wants to hear of me. Not at 
all well, Louisa. Very faint and giddy.” 

“ Are you in pain, dear mother ? ” 

“ I think there’s a pain somewhere in the room,” said Mrs. 
Gradgrind, “ but I couldn’t positively say that I have got il.” 

After this strange speech, she lay silent for some time. 
Louisa, holding her hand, could feel no pulse ; but kissing it, 
could see a slight thin thread of life in fluttering motion. 

“You very seldom see your sister,” said Mrs. Gradgrind. 
“ She grows like you. I wish you would look at her. Sissy, 
bring her here.” 

She was brought, and stood with her hand in her sister’s. 
Louisa had observed her with her arm round Sissy’s neck, and 
she felt the difference of this approach. 

“ Do you see the likeness, Louisa ? ” 

“Yes, mother. I should think her like me. But 

“ Eh ! Yes, I always say so,” Mrs. Gradgrind cried, with 
unexpected quickness. “ And that reminds me. 1 — 1 want 
to speak to you my dear. Sissy my good girl, leave us alone 
a minute.” 

Louisa had relinquished the hand : had thought that her 
sister’s was a better and brighter face than hers had ever 
been : had seen in it, not without a rising feeling of resent- 
ment, even in that place and at that time, something of the 
gentleness of the other face in the room ; the sweet face with 
the trusting eyes, made paler than watching and sympathy 
made it, by the rich dark hair. 

Left alone with her mother, Louisa saw her lying with an 
awful lull upon her face like one who was floating away upon 
some great water, all resistance over, content to be carried 
down the stream. She put the shadow of a hand to her lips 
again, and recalled her. 

“ You were going to speak to me, moiher.” 

“ Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dear. You know your father 
is almost always away now, and therefore I must write to him 
about it.” 

“ About what, mother ? Don’t be troubled. About what ? ” 

“ You must remember, my dear, that whenever I have 
said anything, on any subject, I have never heard the last of 


SFARSIT^S STAIRCASE, 


713 

it : and consequently, that I have long left off saying any 
thing.” 

‘‘ I can hear you, mother.” But, it was only by dint of 
bending down to her ear, and at the same time attentively 
watching the lips as they moved, that she could link sucla 
faint and broken sounds into any chain of connection. 

You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did your brother. 
Ologies of all kinds from morning to night. If there is any 
Ology left, of any description, that has not been worn to rags 
in this house, all I can say is, I hope I shall never hear its 
name.” 

I can hear you, mother, when you have strength to go 
on.” This, to keep her from floating away. - 

“ But there is something — -not an Ology at all — that your 
father has missed, or forgotten, Louisa. I don’t know what 
it is. I have often sat with Sissy near me, and thought about 
it. I shall never get its name now. But your father may. It 
makes me restless. I want to write to him, to find out for 
God’s sake, what it is. Give me a pen, give me a pen.” 

Even the power of restlessness was gone, except from the 
poor head, which could just turn from side to side. 

She fancied, however, that her request had been complied 
with, and that the pen she could not have held was in her 
hand. It matters little what figures of wonderful no-meaning 
she began to trace upon her wrappers. The hand soon 
stopped in the midst of them ; the light that had always been 
feelole and dim behind the weak transparency, went out ; and 
even Mrs. Gradgrind, emerged from the shadow in which man 
walketh and disquieteth himself in vain, took upon her the 
dread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs. 


CHAPTER X. 

MRS. SPARSIT’S staircase. 

Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves being slow to recover their tone, the 
worthy woman made a stay of some weeks in duration at Mr. 
Bounderby’s retreat, where, notwithstanding her anchorite turn 
of mina based upon her becoming consciousness of her altered 


7^4 


TIMES. 


Station, she resigned herself with noble fortitude to lodging, 
as one may say, in clover, and feeding on the fat of the land. 
During the whole term of this recess from the guardianship 
of the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was a pattern of consistency ; con- 
tinuing to take such pity on Mr. Bounderby to his face, as 
is rarely taken on man, and to call his portrait a Noodle to its 
face; with the greatest acrimony and contempt. 

Mr. Bounderby, having got it into his explosive composition 
that Mrs. Sparsit was a highly superior woman to perceive 
that he had that general cross upon him in his deserts (for he 
had not yet settled what it was), and further that Louisa 
would have objected to her as a frequent visitor if it had com- 
ported with his greatness that she should object to anything 
he chose to do, resolved not to lose sight of Mrs. Sparsit 
easily. So when her nerves were strung up to the pitch of 
again consuming sweet-breads in solitude, he said to her at 
the dinner-table, on the day before her departure, I tell you 
what, ma’am ; you shall come down here of a Saturday, while 
the fine weather lasts, and stay till Monday.” To which Mrs. 
Sparsit returned, in effect, though not of the Mahomedan per- 
suasion : ‘‘ To hear is to obey.” 

Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetical woman ; but she took 
an idea in the nature of an allegorical fancy, into her head. 
Much watching of Louisa, and much consequent observation 
of her impenetrable demeanor, which keenly whetted and 
sharpened Mrs. Sparsit’s edge, must have given her as it v/ere 
a lift, in the way of inspiration. She erected in her mind a 
mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of shame and ruin at the 
bottom ; and down those stairs, from day to day and hour to 
hour, she saw Louisa coming. 

It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit’s life, to look up at 
her staircase, and to watch Louisa coming down. Sometimes 
slowly, sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps at one 
bout, sometimes stopping, never turning back. If she had 
once turned back, it might have been the death of Mrs. S]3arsit 
in spleen and grief. 

She had been descending steadily, to the day, and on the 
day, when Mr. Bounderby issued the weekly invitation recorded 
above. Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined to be 
conversational. 

“And pray, sir,” said she, “if I may venture to ask a 
question appertaining to any subject on which you show re- 
serve — which is indeed hardy in me, for I well know you have 


SPARSIT’S STAIRCASE. 


7^5 


a reason for everything you do — have you received intelligence 
respecting the robbery ? ’’ 

“ Why, ma’am, no ; not yet. Under the circumstances, 
I didn’t expect it yet. Rome wasn’t built in a day, ma’am.” 

‘‘Very true, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head. 

“Nor yet in a week, ma’am.” 

“ No, indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a gentle 
melancholy upon her. 

“ In a similar manner, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “ I can 
wait, you know. If Romulus and Remus could wait, Josiah 
Bounderby can wait. They were better off in their youth 
than I was, however. They had a she-wolf for a nurse ; 1 
had only a she-wolf for a grandmother. She didn’t give any 
milk, ma’am ; she gave bruises. She was a regular Alderney 
at that.” 

“ Ah ! ” Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered. 

“ No, ma’am,” continued Bounderby, “ I have not heard 
anything more about it. It’s in hand, though ; and young 
Tom, who rather sticks to business at present — something new 
for him ; he hadn’t the schooling I had — is helping. My in- 
junction is. Keep it quiet, and let it seem to blow over. Do 
what you like under the rose, but don’t give a sign of what 
you’re about ; or half a hundred of ’em will combine together 
and get this fellow who has bolted, out of reach for good. 
Keep it quiet, and the thieves will grow in confidence by little 
and little, and we shall have ’em.” 

“ Very sagacious indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit. “ Very 
interesting. The old woman you mentioned, sir ” 

“ The old woman I mentioned, ma’am,” said Bounderby, 
cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to boast about, “ is 
not laid hold of ; but, she may take her oath she will be, if 
that is any satisfaction to her villanous old mind. In the 
meantime, ma’am, I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, 
that the less she is talked about, the better.” 

That same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, 
resting from her packing operations, looked towards her great 
staircase and saw Louisa still descending. 

She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, 
talking very low, he stood leaning over her, as they whispered 
together, and his face almost touched her hair. “ If not 
quite ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk’s eyes to the 
utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear a word of their 
discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly 


HARD TIMES. 


716 

otherwise than from the expression of their figures ; but what 
they said was this : 

‘‘ You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse ” 

“ Oh, perfectly ! ” 

“ His face, and his manner, and what he said ? ” 

“ Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared 
to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was 
knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of elo- 
quence ; but, I assure you I thought at the time, ‘ My good 
fellow, you are over-doing this ! ’ ’’ 

“ It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that 
man.’’ 

“ My dear Louisa — as Tom says.” Which he never did 
say. “ You know no good of the fellow } ” 

“ No, certainly.” 

“ Nor of any other such person ? ” 

“ How can I,” she returned, with more of her first manner 
on her than he had lately seen, “ when I know nothing of 
them, men or women ” 

“ My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive 
representation of your devoted friend, who knows something 
of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures — for ex- 
cellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such 
little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can 
get hold of. This fellow talks. Well ; every fellow talks. 
He professes morality. Well ; all sorts of humbugs profess 
morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Cor- 
rection, there is a general profession of morality, except 
among our people ; it really is that exception which makes 
our people quite reviving. You saw and heard the case. Here 
was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by 
my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby — who, as we know, is not 
possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. 
The member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, 
left the house grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him 
to go in for some share in this Bank business, went in, put 
something in his pocket which had nothing in it before, and 
relieved his mind extremely. Really he would have been an 
uncommon, instead of a common, fellow, if he had not availed 
himself of such an opportunity. Or he may have originated 
it altogether, if he had the cleverness.” 

“ I almost feel as though it must be bad in me,” returned 
Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile, “to be so ready to 


LOWER AND LOWER. yif 

agree with you, and to be so lightened in my heart by what 
you say/’ 

I only say what is reasonable ; nothing worse. I have 
talked it over with my friend Tom more than once — of course 
I remain on terms of perfect confidence with Tom — and he is 
quite of my opinion, and I am quite of his. Will you walk ? ” 

They strolled away, among the lanes beginning to be in- 
dfstinct in the twilight — she leaning on his arm — and she little 
thought how she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Sparsit’s 
staircase. 

Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it standing. When 
Louisa had arrived at the bottom and disappeared in the gulf, 
it might fall in upon her if it would ; but, until then, there it was 
to be, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit’s eyes. And there 
Louisa always was, upon it. And always gliding down, down, 
down ! 

Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come and go; she 
heard of him here and there ; she saw the changes of the face 
he had studied ; she, too, remarked to a nicety how and when 
it clouded, how and when it cleared ; she kept her black eyes 
wide open, with no touch of pity, with no touch of compunc- 
tion, all absorbed in interest. In the interest of seeing her, 
ever drawing, with no hand to stay her, nearer and nearer to 
the bottom of this new Giant’s Staircase. 

With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby as contradis- 
tinguished from his portrait, Mrs. Sparsit had not the smallest 
intention of interrupting the descent. Eager to see it accom- 
plished, and yet patient, she waited for the last fall, as for the 
ripeness and fulness of the harvest of her hopes. Hushed in 
expectancy, she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs ; and sel- 
dom so much as darkly shook her right mitten (with her fist 
in it), at the figure coming down. 


CHAPTER XL 

LOWER AND LOWER. 

The figure descended the great stairs, steadily, steadily ; 
always verging, like a weight in deep water, to the black gulf 
at the bottom. 

Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife’s decease, made an 


//AAW TIMES. 


f i8 

expedition from London, and buried her in a business-like 
manner. He then returned with promptitude to the national 
cinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for the odds and ends he 
wanted, and his throwing of the dust about into the eyes of 
other people who wanted other odds and ends — in fact re- 
sumed his parliamentary duties. 

In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept unwinking watch and 
ward. Separated from her staircase, all the week, by the 
length of iron road dividing Coketown from the country-house, 
she yet maintained her cat-like observation of Louisa, through 
her husband, through her brother, through James Harthouse, 
through the outsides of letters and packets, through every- 
thing animate and inanimate that at any time went near the 
stairs. Your foot on the last step, my lady,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, apostrophizing the descending figure, with the aid of 
her threatening mitten, and all your art shall never blind 
me.” 

Art or nature though, the original stock of Louisa’s charac- 
ter or the graft of circumstances upon it, — her curious reserve 
did baffle, while it stimulated, one as sagacious as Mrs. Sparsit. 
There were times when Mr. James Harthouse was not sure 
of her. There were times when he could not read the face 
he had studied so long ; and when this lonely girl was a 
greater mystery to him, than any woman of the world with a 
ring of satellites to help her. 

So the time went on ; until it happened that Mr. Bounder- 
by was called away from home by business which required his 
presence elsewhere, for three or four days. It was on a Fri- 
day that he intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit at the Bank, add- 
ing : But you’ll go down to-morrow, ma’am, all the same. 
You’ll go down just as if I was there. It will make no 
difference to you.” 

‘‘Pray, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, reproachfully, “let me 
beg you not to say that. Your absence will make a vast dif- 
ference to me, sir, as I think you very well know.” 

“ Well, ma’am, then you must get on in my absence as 
well as you can,” said Bounderby, not displeased. 

“ Mr. Bounderby,” retorted Mrs. Sparsit, “ your will is to 
me a law, sir ; otherwise, it might be my inclination to dispute 
your kind commands, not feeling sure that it will be quite so 
agreeable to Miss Gradgrind to receive me, as it ever is to 
your own munificent hospitality. But you shall say no more, 
sir. I will go, upon your invitation.” 


LOWER AND LOWER. 




“ Why, when I invite you to my house, ma’am,’’ said 
Bounderby, opening his eyes, ‘‘ I should hope you want no 
other invitation.” 

“No, indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “I should hope 
not. Say no more, sir. I would, sir, I could see you gay 
again.” 

“ What do you mean, ma’am ? ” blustered Bounderby. 

“ Sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, “ there was wont to be an 
elasticity in you which I sadly miss. Be buoyant, sir ! ” 

Mr. Bounderby, under the influence of this difficult adju- 
ration, backed up by her compassionate eye, could only scratch 
his head in a feeble and ridiculous manner, and afterwards 
assert himself at a distance, by being heard to "bully the small 
fry of business all the morning. 

“Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit that afternoon, when her pa- 
tron was gone on his journey, and the Bank was closing, 
“ present my compliments to young Mr. Thomas, and ask him 
if he would step up and partake of a lamb chop and walnut 
ketchup, with a glass of India ale?” Young Mr. Thomas 
being usually ready for anything in that way, returned a gra- 
cious answer, and followed on its heels. “ Mr. Thomas,” 
said Mrs. Sparsit, “these plain viands being on table, I 
thought you might be tempted.” 

“ Thank’ee, Mrs. Sparsit,” said the whelp. And gloomily 
fell to. 

“How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?” asked Mof- Sparsit. 

“ Oh, he’s ail right,” said Tom. 

“ Where may he be at present ? ” Mrs. Sparsit asked in a 
light conversational manner, after mentally devoting the whelp 
to the Furies for being so uncommunicative. 

“ He is shooting in Yorkshire,” said Tom. “ Sent Loo a 
basket half as big as a church, yesterday.” 

“ The kind of gentleman, now,” said Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly, 
“ whom one might wager to be a good shot ! ” 

“ Crack,” said Tom. 

He had long been a down-looking young fellow, but this 
characteristic had so increased of late, that he never raised 
his eyes to any face for three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsit 
consequently had ample means oE watching his looks, if she 
were so inclined. 

“ Mr. Harthouse is a great favorite of mine,” said Mrs. 
Sparsit, “ as indeed he is of most people. May we expect to 
see him again shortly, Mr. Tom ? ” 


720 


HARD TIMES. 


Why, / expect to see him to-morrow,” returned the 
whelp. 

‘‘ Good news ! ” cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly. 

‘‘ I have got an appointment with him to meet him in the 
evening at the station here,” said Tom, “ and I am going to 
dine with him afterwards, I believe. He is not coming down 
to the country house for a week or so, being due somewhere 
else. At least, he says so ; but I shouldn’t wonder if he was 
to stop here over Sunday, and stray that way.” 

“ Which reminds me ! ” said Mrs. Sparsit. Would you 
remember a message to your sister, Mr. Tom, if I was to 
charge you with one ? ” 

“ Well } I’ll try,” returned the reluctant whelp, ‘‘ if it 
isn’t a long un.” 

‘‘ It is merely my respectful compliments,” said Mrs. Spar- 
sit, and I fear I may not trouble her with my society this 
week ; being still a little nervous, and better perhaps by my 
poor self.” 

“Oh! If that’s all,” observed Tom, “it wouldn’t much 
matter, even if I was to forget it, for Lop’s not likely to think 
of you unless she sees you.” 

Having paid for his entertainment with this agreeable 
compliment, he relapsed into a hangdog silence until there 
was no more India ale left, when he said, “ Well, Mrs. Sparsit, 
I must be off! ” and went off. 

Next vtjiy, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit sat at her window all 
day long i joking at the customers coming in and out, watch- 
ing. the postmen, keeping an eye on the general traffic of the 
street, revolving many things in her mind, but, above all, 
keeping her attention on her staircase. The evening come, 
she put on her bonnet and shawl and went quietly out : hav- 
ing her reasons for hovering in a furtive way about the station 
by which a passenger would arrive from Yorkshire, and for 
Ijreferring to peep into it round pillars and corners, and out 
of ladies’ waiting-room windows, to appearing in its precincts 
openly. 

Tom was in attendance, and loitered about until the ex- 
pected train came in. It brought no Mr. Harthouse. Tom 
waited until the crowd had dispersed, and the bustle was over ; 
and then referred to a posted list of trains, and took counsel 
with porters. That done, he strolled away idly, stopping in 
the street and looking up it and down it, and lifting his hat 
off and putting it on again, and yawning and stretching him- 


LOWER AND LOWER. 


721 


self, and exhibiting all the symptoms of mortal weariness to 
be expected in one who had still to wait until the next train 
should conie in, an hour and forty minutes hence. 

‘‘This is a device to keep him out of the way,’’ said Mrs. 
Sparsit, starting from the dull office window whence she had 
watched him last. “ Harthouse is with his sister now ! ” 

It was the conception of an inspired moment, and she shot 
off with her utmost swiftness to work it out. The station for 
the country house was at the opposite end of the town, the 
time was short, the road not easy ; but she was so quick in 
pouncing on a disengaged coach, so quick in darting out of it, 
producing her money, seizing her ticket, and diving into the 
train, that she was borne along the arches spanning the land 
of coal-pits past and present, as if she had been caught up in 
a cloud and whirled away. 

All the journey, immovable in the air though never left 
behind ; plain to the dark hours of her mind, as the electric 
wires which ruled a colossal strip of music-paper out of the 
evening sky, were plain to the dark eyes of her body ; Mrs. 
Sparsit saw her staircase, with the figure coming down. Very 
near the bottom now. Upon the brink of the abyss. 

An overcast September evening, just at nightfall, saw 
beneath its drooping eyelid Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her car- 
riage ; pass down the wooden steps of the little station into a 
stony road, cross it into a green lane, and become hidden in 
a summer growth of leaves and branches. One or two late 
birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily cross- 
ing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the 
thick dust that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or 
saw until she very softly closed a gate. 

She went up to the house, keeping within the shrubbery, 
and went round it, peeping between the leaves at the lower 
windows. Most of them were open, as they usually were in 
such warm weather, but there were no lights yet, and all was 
silent. She tried the garden with no better effect. She 
thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedless of long 
grass and briers : of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the 
creeping things that be. With her dark eyes and her hook 
nose warily in advance of her, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her 
way through the thick undergrowth, so intent upon her object 
that she probably would have done no less, if the wood had 
been a wood of adders. 

Hark I 


722 


//A7^D TIMES. 


The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests, 
fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit’s eyes in the gloom, 
as she stopped and listened. 

Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers. The ap- 
pointment was a device to keep the brother away ! There 
they were yonder, by the felled tree. 

Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs. Sparsit advanced 
closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a 
tree, like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the sav- 
ages ; so near to them that at a spring, and that no great one, 
she could have touched them both. He was there secretly, 
and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on 
horseback, and must have passed through the neighboring 
fields ; for his horse was tied to the meadow side of the fence, 
within a few paces. 

“ My dearest love,’’ said he, “ what could I do ? Know- 
ing you were alone, was it possible that I could stay away ? ” 
‘‘You may hang your head, to make yourself the more 
attractive ; I don’t know what they see in you when you hold 
it up,” thought Mrs. Sparsit ; “ but you little think, my dearest 
love, whose eyes are on you 1 ” 

That she hung her head, was certain. She urged him to 
go away, she commanded him to go away ; but she neither 
turned her face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable 
that she sat as still as ever the amiable woman in ambuscade 
had seen her sit, at any period in her life. Her hands rested 
in one another, like the hands of a statue ^ and even her 
manner of speaking was not hurried. 

“ My dear child,” said Harthouse ; Mrs. Sparsit saw with 
delight that his arm embraced her ; “ will you not bear with 
my society for a little while 1 ” 

“ Not here.” 

“ Where, Louisa ? ’* 

“Not here.” 

“ But we have so little time to make so much of, and I 
have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and dis- 
tracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ilh 
used by his mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that 
has warmed me into life, and to be received in your frozen 
manner, is heart-rending.” 

“ Am I to say again, that I must be left to myself here ? ” 

“ But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Where shall we 
meet?” 


LOWER AND LOWER. 


723 


They both started. The listener started, guiltily, too ; for 
she thought there was another listener among the trees. It 
was only rain, beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops. 

“ Shall I ride up to the house a few minutes hence, inno- 
cently supposing that its master is at home and will be 
charmed to receive me ? ’’ 

“ Your cruel commands are implicitly to be obeyed ; though 
I am the most unfortunate fellow in the world, I believe, to have 
been insensible to all other women, and to have fallen prostrate 
at last under the foot of the most beautiful, and the most 
engaging, and the most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I 
cannot go myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse of your 
power.’’ 

Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with his encircling arm, 
and heard him then and there, within her (Mrs. Sparsit’s) 
greedy hearing, tell her how he loved her, and how she was 
the stake for which he ardently desired to play away all that 
he had in life. The objects he had lately pursued, turned 
worthless beside her ; such success as w^as almost in his grasp, 
he flung away from him like the dirt it was, compared wdth 
her. Its pursuit, nevertheless, if it kept him near her, or its 
renunciation if it took him from her, or flight if she shared it, 
or secrecy if she commanded it, or any fate, or every fate, all 
was alike to him, so that she w^as true to him, — the man who 
had seen how cast away she was, whom she had inspired at 
their first meeting with an admiration, an interest, of which he 
had thought himself incapable, whom she had received into 
her confidence, who was devoted to her and adored her. All 
this, and more, in his hurry, and in hers, in the whirl of her 
own gratified malice, in the dread of being discovered, in the 
rapidly increasing noise of heavy rain among the leaves, and 
a thunderstorm rolling up — Mrs. Sparsit received into her 
mind, set off with such an unavoidable halo of confusion and 
indistinctness, that when at length he climbed the fence and 
led his horse away, she was not sure where they were to meet, or 
when, except that they had said it was to be that night. 

But one of them yet remained in the darkness before her ; 
and while she tracked that one she must be right. ‘‘ Oh, 
my dearest love,” thought Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘ you little think how 
well attended you are ! ” 

Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and saw her enter 
the house. What to do n'^xt ? It rained now, in a sheet of 


724 


J7A/^D TIMES. 


water. Mrs. Sparsit’s white stockings were of many colors, 
green predominating ; prickly things were in her shoes ; cater- 
pillars slung themselves, in hammocks of their own making, 
from various parts of her dress ; rills ran from her bonnet, and 
her Roman nose. In such condition, Mrs. Sparsit stood 
hidden in the density of the shrubbery, considering what 
next ? 

Lo, Louisa coming out of the house ! Hastily cloaked 
and muffled, and stealing away. She elopes ! She falls from 
the lowermost stair, and is swallowed up in the gulf. 

Indifferent to the rain, and moving with a quick deter- 
mined step, she struck into a side-path parallel with the ride. 
Mrs. Sparsit followed in the shadow of the trees, at but a 
short distance ; for it was not easy to keep a figure in view 
going quickly through the umbrageous darkness. 

When she stopped to close the side-gate without noise, Mrs. 
Sparsit stopped. When she went on Mrs. Sparsit went on. 
She went by the way Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged from 
the green lane, crossed the stony road, and ascended the 
wooden steps to the railroad. A train for Coketown would 
come through presently, Mrs. Sparsit knew ; so she under- 
stood Coketown to be her first place of destination. 

In Mrs. Sparsit’s limp and streaming state, no extensive 
precautions were necessary to change her usual appearance ; 
but, she stopped under the lee of the station wall, tumbled her 
shawl into a new shape, and put it on over her bonnet. So dis- 
guised she had no fear of being recognized when she followed 
up the railroad steps, and paid her money in the small office. 
Louisa sat waiting in a corner. Mrs. Sparsit sat waiting in 
another corner. Both listened to the thunder, which was 
loud, and to the rain, as it washed off the roof, and pattered 
on the parapets of the arches. Two or three lamps were 
rained out and blown out ; so, both saw the lightning to ad- 
vantage as it quivered and zigzagged on the iron tracks. 

The seizure of the station with a fit of trembling, gradu- 
ally deepening to a complaint of the heart, announced the 
train. Fire and steam, and smoke, and red light ; a hiss, a 
crash, a bell, and a shriek ; Louisa put into one carriage, Mrs. 
Sparsit put into another : the little station a desert speck in 
the thunder-storm. 

Though her teeth chattered in her head from wet and cold, 
Mrs. Sparsit exulted hugely. The figure had plunged down 
the precipice, and she felt herself, as it were, attending on the 


DOlViV. 


725 


body. Could she, who had been so active in the getting up 
of the funeral triumph, do less than exult ? She will be at 
Coketown long before him,” thought Mrs. Sparsit, “ though 
his horse is never so good. Where will she wait for him ? 
And where will they go together ? Patience. We shall see.” 

The tremendous rain occasioned infinite confusion, when 
the train stopped at its destination. Gutters and pipes had 
burst, drains had overflowed, and streets were under water. 
In the first instant of alighting, Mrs. Sparsit turned her dis- 
tracted eyes towards the waiting coaches, which were in great 
request. “ She will get into one,” she considered, and will 
be away before I can follow in another. At all risks of being 
run over, I must see the number, and hear the order given to 
the coachman.” 

But, Mrs. Sparsit w'as wrong in her calculation. Louisa 
got into no coach, and was already gone. The black eyes 
kept upon the railroad carriage in which she had travelled, 
settled upon it a moment too late. The door not being opened 
after several minutes, Mrs. Sparsit passed it and repassed it, saw 
nothing, looked in, and found it empty. Wet through and 
through : with her feet squelching and squashing in her shoes 
whenever she moved ; with a rash of rain upon her classical 
visage ; with a bonnet like an over-ripe fig j with all her 
clothes spoiled ; with damp . impressions of every button, 
string, and hook-and-eye she wore, printed off upon her 
highly connected back ; with a stagnant verdure on her gen- 
eral exterior, such as accumulates on an old park fence in a 
mouldy lane ; Mrs. Sparsit had no resource but to burst into 
tears of bitterness and say, ‘‘ I have lost her ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

DOWN. 

The national dustmen, after entertaining one another with 
a great many noisy little fights among themselves, had dis- 
persed for the present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home for 
the vacation. 

He sat writing in the room with the deadly statistical clock, 
proving something no doubt — probably, in the main, that the 


HARD TIMES. 


726 

Good Samaritan was a Bad Economist. The noise of the 
rain did not disturb him much ; but it attracted his attention 
sufficiently to unake him raise his head sometimes, as if he 
were rather remonstrating with the elements. When it thun- 
dered very loudly, he glanced towards Coketown, having it 
in his mind that some of the tall chimneys might be struck by 
lightning. 

The thunder was rolling into distance, and the rain was 
pouring down like a deluge, when the door of his room 
opened. He looked round the lamp upon his table, and saw, 
with amazement, his eldest daughter. 

Louisa ! ’’ 

Father, I want to speak to you.’’ 

What is the matter } How strange you look ! And good 
Heaven,” said Mr. Gradgrind, wondering more and more, 
have you come here exposed to this storm ? ” 

She put her hands to her dress, as if she hardly knew. 
‘Wes.” Then she uncovered her head, and letting her cloak 
and hood fall where they might, stood looking at him ; so 
colorless, so dishevelled, so defiant and despairing, that he 
was afraid of her. 

“ What is it ? I conjure you, Louisa, tell me what is the 
matter.” 

She dropped into a chair before him, and put her cold 
hand on his arm. 

“ Father, you have trained me from my cradle ? ” 

“ Yes, Louisa.” 

“ I curse the hour in which I was born to such a destiny.” 

Pie looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantly repeating : 
“ Curse the hour ? Curse the hour ? ” 

“ How could you give me life, and take from me all the 
inappreciable things that raise it from the state of conscious 
death ? Where are the graces of my soul ? Where are the 
sentiments of my heart ? What have you done, O father, 
what have you done, with the garden that should have bloomed 
once, in this great wilderness here ! ” 

She struck herself with both her hands upon her bosom. 

“ If it had ever been here, its ashes alone would save me 
from the void in which my whole life sinks. I did not mean 
to say this ; but, father, 3-011 remember the last time we con- 
versed in this room ? ” 

He had been so wholly unprepared for what he heard now, 
that it was with difficulty he answered, “Yes, Louisa.” 


VOlViV. 


727 


“ What has risen to my lips now, would have risen to my 
lips then, if you had given me a moment’s help. I don’t re- 
proach you, father. What you have never nurtured in me, 
you have never nurtured in yourself ; but O ! if you had only 
done so, long ago, or if you had only neglected me, wliat a 
much better and much happier creature I should have been 
this day ! ” 

On hearing this, after all his care, he bowed his head upon 
his hand and groaned aloud. 

Father, if you had known, when we were last together 
here, what even I feared while I strove against it — as it has 
been my task from infancy to strive against every natural 
prompting that has arisen in my heart ; if you had known 
that there lingered in my breast, sensibilities, affections, 
weaknesses capable of being cherished into strength, defying 
all the calculations ever made by man, and no more known to 
his arithmetic than his Creator is — would you have given me 
to the husband whom I am now sure that I hate } ” 

He said, ‘‘ No. No, my poor child.” 

Would you have doomed me, at anytime, to the frost and 
blight that have hardened and spoiled me ? Would you have 
robbed me — for no one’s enrichment — only for the greater 
desolation of this world — of the immaterial part of my life, 
the spring and summer of my belief, my refuge from what is 
sordid and bad in the real things around me, m}^ school in 
which I should have learned to be more humble and more 
trusting with them, and to hope in my little sphere to make 
them better?” 

“ O no, no. No, Louisa.” 

‘‘Yet, father, if I had been stone blind ; if 1 had groped 
my way by my sense of touch, and had been free, while I 
knew the shapes and surfaces of things, to exercise my fancy 
somewhat, in regard to them ; I should have been a million 
times wiser, happier, more loving, more contented, more inno- 
cent and human in all good respects, than I am with the eves 
I have. Now, hear what I have come to say.” 

He moved, to support her with his arm. She rising as 
he did so, they stood close together ; she, with a hand upon 
his shoulder, looking fixedly in his face. 

“ With a hunger and thirst upon me, father, which have 
never been for a moment appeased ; with an ardent impulse 
towards some region where rules, and figures, and definitions 
were not quite absolute ; I have grown up, battling every inch 
of my way.” 


728 


///fA’Z) TIMES. 


‘‘ I never knew you were unhappy, iny child.” 

“ Father, I always knew it. In this strife I have almost 
repulsed and crushed my better angel into a demon. What I 
have learned has left me doubting, misbelieving, despising, 
regretting, what I have not learned ; and my dismal resource 
has been to think _that life would soon go by, and that noth- 
ing in it could be worth the pain and trouble of a contest.” 

And you so young, Louisa ! ” he said with pity. 

And I so young. In this condition, father — for I show 
you now, without fear or favor, the ordinary deadened state 
of my mind as I know it — you proposed my husband to me. 
I took him. I never made a pretence to him or you that I 
loved him. I knew, and^ father, you knew, and he knew, that 
I never did. I was not wholly indifferent, for 1 had a hope 
of being pleasant and useful to Tom. I made that wild 
escape into something visionary, and have slowly found out 
how wild it was. But Tom had been the subject of all the 
little tenderness of my life ; perhaps he became so because 1 
knew so well how to pity him. It matters little now, except 
as it may dispose you to think more leniently of his errors.” 

As her father held her in his arms, she put her other hand 
upon his other shoulder, and still looking fixedly in his face, 
went on : 

When I was irrevocably married, there rose up into re- 
bellion against the tie, the old strife, made fiercer by all those 
causes of disparity which arise out of our two individual na- 
tures, and which no general laws shall ever rule or state for 
me, father, until they shall be able to direct the anatomist 
where to strike his knife into the secrets of my soul.” 

“ Louisa ! ” he said, and said imploringly ; for he well re- 
membered what had passed between them in their former 
inteiview. 

‘‘ I do not reproach you, father, I make no complaint. I 
am here with another object.” 

What can I do, child ? Ask me what you will.” 

“ I am coming to it. Father, chance then threw into my 
way a new acquaintance ; a man such as I had had no expe- 
rience of ; used to the world ; light, polished, easy ; making 
no pretences ; avowing the low estimate of everything, that I 
was half afraid to form in secret ; conveying to me almost 
immediately, though I don’t know how or by what degrees, 
that he understood me, and read my thoughts. I could not 
find that he was worse than I. 'Fliere seemed to be a near 


DOIVX. 


7-9 


affinity between us. I only wondered it should be worth his 
while, who cared for nothing else, to care so much for me.'’ 

“For you, Louisa!” 

Her father might instinctively have loosened his hold, but 
that he felt her strength departing from her, and saw a wild 
dilating fire in the eyes steadfastly regarding him. 

“ I say nothing of his plea for claiming my confidence. 
It matters very little how he gained it. Father, he did gain 
it. What you know of the story of my marriage he soon 
knew, just as well.” 

Fler father’s face was ashy white, and he .held her in both 
his arms. 

“ I have done no worse, I have not disgraced you. But if 
you ask me whether I have loved him, or do love him, I tell 
you plainly, father, that it may be so. I don’t know.” 

She took her hands suddenly from his shoulders, and 
pressed them both upon her side ; while in her face, not like 
itself — and in her figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by a last 
effort what she had to say — the feelings long suppressed 
broke loose. 

“ This night, my husband being away, he has ]:>een with 
me, declaring himself my lover. This minute he expects me, 
for I could release myself of his presence by no other means. 
I do not know that I am sorry, I do not know that I am 
ashamed, I do not know that I am degraded in my own esteem. 
All that I know is, your philosophy and your teaching will 
not save me. Now, father, you have brought me to this. 
Save me by some other means 1 ” 

He tightened his hold in time to prevent her sinking on 
the floor, but she cried out in a terrible voice, “ I shall die if 
you hold me ! Let me fall upon the ground 1 ” And he laid 
her down there, and saw the pride of his heart and the tri- 
umph of his system, lying, an insensible heap, at his feet. 


730 


HARD TIMES, 


BOOK THE THIRD. GARNERING. 


CHAPTER I. 

ANOTHER THING NEEDFUL. 

Louisa awoke from a torpor, and her eyes languidly 
opened on her old bed at home, and her old room. It 
seemed, as first, as if all that had happened since the days 
when these objects were familiar to her were the shadows of 
a dream ; but gradually, as the objects became more real to 
her sight, the events became more real to her mind. 

She could scarcely move her head for pain and heaviness, 
her eyes were strained and sore, and she was very weak. A 
curious passive inattention had such possession of her, that 
the presence of her little sister in the room did not attract her 
notice for some time. Even when their eyes had met, and her 
sister had approached the bed, Louisa lay for minutes looking 
at her in silence, and suffering her timidly to hold her passive 
hand, before she asked : 

“ When was I brought to this room ? 

Last night, Louisa.” 

“ Who brought me here ? ” 

Sissy, I believe.” 

“ Why do you believe so ? ” 

Because I found her here this morning. She didn’t 
come to my bedside to wake me, as she always does ; and I 
went to look for her. She wasGiot in her own room either ; 
and I went looking for her all over the house, until I found 
her here taking care of you and cooling your head. Will you 
see father ? Sissy said I was to tell him when you woke.” 

“ What a beaming face you have, Jane ! ” said Louisa, as 
her young sister — timidly still — bent down to kiss her. 

‘‘ Have I ? I am very glad you think so. I am sure it 
must be Sissy’s doing.” 


AA^OTHEJ^ THING AHEDEUL. 


73 ? 


The arm Louisa had begun to twine about her neck^ 
unbent itself. “ You can tell father if you will.’’ Then, stay- 
ing her a moment, she said, It was you who made my room 
so cheerful, and gave it this look of welcome ? ” 

“Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. It was ” 

Louisa turned upon her pillow and heard no more. When 
her sister had withdrawn, she turned her head back again, 
and lay with her face towards the door, until it opened and 
her father entered. 

He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and his hand, 
usually steady, trembled in hers. He sat down at the side of 
the bed, tenderly asking how she was, and dwelling on the 
necessity of her keeping very quiet after her agitation and ex- 
posure to the weather last night. He spoke in a subdued 
and troubled voice, very different from his usual dictatorial 
manner ; and was often at a loss for words. 

“ My dear Louisa. My poor daughter.” He was so 
much at a loss at that place, that he stopped altogether. He 
tried again. 

“ My unfortunate child.” The place was so difficult to 
get over, that he tried again. 

“ It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, to endeavor to tell 
you how overwhelmed I have been, and still am, by what 
broke upon me last night. The ground on which I stand has 
ceased to be solid under my feet. The only support on which 
I leaned, and the strength of which it seemed and still does 
seem, impossible to question, has given way in an instant. I 
am stunned by these discoveries. I have no selfish meaning 
in what I say ; but I find the shock of what broke upon me 
last night, to be very heavy indeed.” 

She could give him no comfort herein. She had suffered 
the wreck of her whole life upon the rock. 

“ I will not say, Louisa, that if you had by any happy 
chance undeceived me some time ago, it would have been 
better for us both ; better for your peace, and better for 
mine. For I am sensible that it may not have been a part of 
my system to invite any confidence of that kind. I had 
proved my — my system to myself, and I have rigidly adminis- 
tered it ; and I must bear the responsibility of its failures. I 
only entreat you to believe, my favorite child, that I have 
meant to do right.” 

He said it earnestly, and to do him justice he had. In 
gauging fathomless deeps with his little mean excise-rod, and 


732 


I/ARD TIMES. 


ill Staggering over the universe with his rusty stiff-legged 
compasses, he had meant to do great things. Within the 
limits of his short tether he had tumbled about, annihilating 
the flowers of existence with greater singleness of purpose 
than many of the blatant personages whose company he kept. 

I am well assured of what you say, father. I know I 
have been your favorite child. I know you have intended to 
make me happy. I have never blamed you, and 1 never 
shall.” 

He took her outstretched hand, and retained it in his. 

“ My dear, I have remained all night at my table, ponder- 
ing again and again on what has so painfully passed between 
us. When I consider your character ; when 1 consider that 
what has been known to me for hours, has been concealed by 
you for years ; when I consider under what immediate pres- 
sure it has been forced from you at last; I come to the con- 
clusion that I cannot but mistrust myself.” 

He might have added more than all, when he saw the 
face now looking at him. He did add it in effect, perhaps, 
as he softly moved her scattered hair from her forehead with 
his hand. Such little actions, slight in another man, w^ere 
very noticeable in him ; and his daughter received them as if 
they had been words of contrition. 

“ But,” said Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and with hesitation, 
as well as with a wretched sense of helplessness, ‘‘ if I see 
reason to mistrust myself for the past, Louisa, I should also 
mistrust myself for the present and the future. To speak 
unreservedly to you, I do. I am far from feeling convinced 
now, however differently I might have felt only this time yes- 
terday, that I am fit for the trust you repose in me ; that I 
know how to respond to the appeal you have come home to 
make to me ; that I have the right instinct — supposing it for 
the moment to be some quality of that nature — how to help ^ 
you, and to set you right, my child.” 

She had turned upon her pillow, and lay with her face 
upon her arm, so that he could not see it. All her wildness 
and passion had subsided ; but, though softened, she was not 
in tears. Her father was changed in nothing so much as in 
the respect that he would have been glad to see her in tears. 

“Some persons hold,” he pursued, still hesitating, “that 
there is a wisdom of the Head, and that there is a wisdom of 
the Heart. I have not supposed so ; but, as I have said, I 
mistrust myself now. I have supposed the head to be all- 


ANOTNEK THING XEEDEUL, 


733 


sufficient. It may not be all-sufficient ; how can 1 venture 
this morning to say it is ! If that other kind of wisdom 
should be what I have neglected, and should be the instinct 
that is wanted, Louisa ” 

He suggested it very doubtfulty, as if he were half unwill- 
ing to admit it even now. She made him no answer, lying 
before him on the bed, still half-dressed, much as he had seen 
her lying on the floor of his room last night. 

^‘Louisa,” and his hand rested on her hair again, “ I have 
been absent from here, my dear, a good deal of late ; and 
though your sister’s training has been pursued according to — 
the system ” he appeared to come to that word with great re- 
luctance always, “ it has necessarily been modified by daily 
associations begun, in her case, at an early age. I ask you 
— ignorantly and humbly, my daughter — for the better, do 
you think ? ” 

‘‘ Father,” she replied, without stirring, ‘‘ if any harmony 
has been awakened in her young breast that was mute in 
mine until it turned to discord, let her thank Heaven for it, 
and go upon her happier way, taking it as her greatest bless- 
ing that she has avoided my way.” 

O my child, my child 1 ” he said in a forlorn manner, “ I 
am an unhappy man to see you thus ! What avails it to me 
that you do not reproach me, if I so bitterly reproach my- 
self ! ” He bent his head, and spoke low to her. Louisa, 
I have a misgiving that some change may have been slowly 
working about me in this house, by mere love and gratitude : 
that what the Head had left undone and could not do, the 
Heart may have been doing silently. Can it be so } ” 

She made him no reply. 

‘‘ I’m not too proud to believe it, Louisa. How could I 
be arrogant, and you before me ! Can it be so ? Is it so my 
dear } ” 

He looked upon her once more, lying cast away there ; 
and without another word went out of the room. He had 
not been long gone, \vlien she heard a light tread near the 
door, and knew that some one stood beside her. 

She did not raise her head. A dull anger that she should 
be seen in her distress, and that the involuntary look she had 
so resented should come to this fulfilment, smouldered within 
her like an unwholesome fire. All closely imprisoned forces 
rend and destroy. The air that would be healthful to the 
earth, the water that would enrich it, the heat that would 


734 


//AJ^U TIMES, 


ripen it, tear it when caged up. So in her bosom even now ^ 
the strongest qualities she possessed, long turned upon them- 
selves, became a heap of obduracy, that rose against a friend. 

It was well that soft touch came upon her neck, and that 
she understood herself to be supposed to have fallen asleep. 
The sympathetic hand did not claim her resentment. Let it 
lie there, let it lie. 

It lay there, warming into life a crowd of gentle thoughts ; 
and she rested. As she softened with the quiet, and the con- 
sciousness of being so watched, some tears made their way 
into her eyes. The face touched hers, and she knew that 
there were tears upon it too, and she the cause of them. 

As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat up. Sissy re- 
tired, so that she stood placidly near the bedside. 

‘‘ I hope I have not disturbed you. I have come to ask 
you if you would let me stay with you ? ” 

Why should you stay v/ith me ? My sister will miss 
you. You are everything to her.” 

Am I ? ” returned Sissy, shaking her head. “ I would 
be something to you, if I might.” 

What ? ” said Louisa, almost sternly. 

“ Whatever you want most, if I could be that. At all 
events, I would like to try to be as near it as I can. And 
howeverTar off that may be, I will never tire of trying. Will 
you let me 1 ” 

My father sent you to ask me.” 

“No indeed,” replied Sissy. “ He told me that I might 
come in now, but he sent me away from the room this morn- 
ing — or at least — ” She hesitated and stopped. 

“ At least, what ? ” said Louisa, with her searching eyes 
upon her. 

“ I thought it best myself that I should be sent away, for 
I felt very uncertain whether you would like to find me here.” 

“ Have I always hated you so much ? ” 

“ I hope not, for I have always loved you, and have always 
wished that you should know it. But. you changed to me a 
little, shortly before you left home. Not that I wondered at 
it. You knew so much, and I knew so little, and it was so 
natural in many ways, going as you were among other friends, 
that I had nothing to complain of, and was not at all hurt.” 

Her color rose as she said it modestly and hurriedly. 
Louisa understood the loving pretence, and her heart smote 
her. 


F£/^ y RIDICULOUS, 


735 

May I try ? ” said Sissy, emboldened to raise'tier hand 
to the neck that was insensibly drooping towards her. 

Louisa, taking down the hand that would have embraced 
her in another moment, held it in one of hers, and answered : 

First, Sissy, do you know what I am ? I am so proud 
and ^o hardened, so confused and troubled, so resentful and 
iiiijust to every one and to myself, that everything is stormy, 
dark, and wicked to me. Does not that repel you ? ” 

‘‘ No ! ” 

“I am so unhappy, and all that should have made me 
otherwise is so laid waste, that if I had been bereft of sense 
to this hour, and instead of being as learned.as you think me, 
had to begin to acquire the simplest truths, I could not want 
a guide to peace, contentment, honor, all the good of which 1 
am quite devoid, more abjectly than I do. Does not that 
repel you ? ” 

“ No ! 

In the innocence of her brave affection, and the brimming 
up of her old devoted spirit, the once deserted girl shone like 
a beautiful light upon the darkness of the other. 

Louisa raised the hand that it might clasp her neck and 
join its fellow there. She fell upon her knees, and clinging 
to this stroller’s child looked up at her almost with veneration. 

Forgive me, pity me, help me ! Have compassion on 
my great need, and let me lay this head of mine upon a loving 
heart ? ” 

“ O lay it here ! ” cried Sissy. Lay it here, my dear.” 


CHAPTER II. 

VERY RIDICULOUS. 

\ 

Mr. James Harthouse passed a whole night and a day 
in a state of so much hurry, that the World, with its best glass 
in its eye, would scarcely have recognized him during that in- 
sane interval, as the brother Jem of the honorable and jocular 
member. He was positively agitated. He several times 
spoke with an emphasis, similar to the vulgar manner. He 
went in and went out in an unaccountable way, like a man 


HA RD 'RIMER. 


without an object. He rode like a highwayman. In a word, 
he was so horribly bored by existing circumstances, that he 
forgot to go in for boredom in the manner prescribed by the 
authorities. 

After putting his horse at Coketown through the storm, as 
if it were a leap, he waited up all night : from time to* time 
ringing his bell with the greatest fury, charging the porter who 
kept watch with delinquency in withholding letters or messages 
that could not fail to have been entrusted to him, and demand- 
ing restitution on the spot. The dawn coming, the morning 
coming, and the day coming, and neither message nor letter 
coming with either, he went down to the country-house. 
There, the report was, Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Bounder- 
by in town. Left for town suddenly last evening. Not even 
known to be gone until receipt of message, importing that her 
return was not to be expected for the present. 

In these circumstances he had nothing for it but to follow 
her to town. He went to the house in town. Mrs. Bounder- 
by not there. He looked in at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby 
away and Mrs. Sparsit away. Mrs. Sparsit away Who 
could have been reduced to sudden extremity for the company 
of that griffin ! 

‘‘ Well ! I don’t know,” said Tom, who had his own 
reasons for being uneasy about it. She was off somewhere 
at daybreak this morning. She’s always full of mystery ; I 
hate her.> So I dp that white chap ; he’s always got his blink- 
ing eyes upon a fellow.” 

“ Where were you last night, Tom ? ” 

W’here was I last night ! ” said Tom. “ Come ! I like 
that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, till it came down 
as I never saw it come down before. Where was I too ! 
Where were you, you mean.” 

‘‘ I was prevented from coming — detained.” 

Detained ! ” murmured Tom. “ Two of us were detained. 
I was detained looking for you, till I lost every train but the 
mail. It would have been a pleasant job to go down by that 
on such a night, and have to walk home through a pond. I 
was obliged to sleep in town after all.” 

Where ” 

‘‘Where.? Why, in my own bed at Bounderby’s.” 

“ Did you see your sister ? ” 

.. “.How the deuce,” returned Tom, staring, “could I see 
my sister when she was fifteen miles off ? ” 


VERY RIDICULOUS. 


737 


Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman to 
whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed 
himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount 
of ceremony, and debated for the hundredth time w'hatall this 
could mean ? He made only one thing clear. It was, that 
w’hether she was in town or out of town, whether he had been 
premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she 
had lost courage, or they w'ere discovered, or some mischance 
or mistake, at present incomprehensible, had occurred, he 
must remain to confront his fortune, whatever it was. The 
hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that 
region of blackness, was the stake to which' he w^as tied. As 
to all the rest — What will be, will be. 

“ So w^hether I am waiting for a hostile message, or an 
assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impromptu 
wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner 
— which would seem as likely as anything else in the present 
state of affairs — VW dine,” said Mr. James Harthouse. 
“ Bounderby has the advantage in point of w- eight ; and if 
anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it may 
be as w'ell to be in training.” 

Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negligently 
on a sofa, ordered “ Some dinner at six — with a beefsteak in 
it,” and got through the intervening time as w^ell as he could. 
That was not particularly well ; for he remained in the greatest 
perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explana- 
tion offered itself, his perplexity augmented at compound 
interest. 

However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human 
nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious idea 
of the training more than once. ‘‘ It wouldn't be bad,” he 
yawned at one time, “ to give the waiter five shillings, and 
throw him.” At another time it occurred to him, Or a fellow 
of about thirteen or fourteen stone might be hired by the 
hour.” But these jests did not tell materially on the after- 
noon, or his suspense , and, sooth to say, they both lagged 
fearfully. • 

It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often 
walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of the 
window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally 
becoming rather hot when any steps approached that room. 
But, after dinner, when the day turned to twilight and the 
twilight turned to night, and still no cominuniGatioii was made 


//AAV TIMES, 


73 ^ 

to him, it began to be as he expressed it, “like the Holy 
Office and slow torture.” However, still true to his conviction 
that indifference was the genuine high-breeding the only con- 
viction he had), he seized this crisis' as the opportunity for 
ordering candles and a newspaper. 

He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read this 
newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said at once mys- 
teriously and apologetically : 

“ Beg your pardon, sir. You’re wanted, sir, if you please.” 

A general recollection that this was the kind of thing the 
Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to ask 
the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil 
he meant by “wanted ” ? 

“ Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir, wishes 
to see you.” 

“ Outside ? Where .> ” 

“ Outside this door, sir.” 

Giving the waiter to the personage before mentioned, as a 
blockhead duly qualified for that consignment, Mr. Harthouse. 
hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never 
seen stood there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty.- 
As he conducted her into the room and placed a chair for her, 
he observed, by the light of the candles, that she was even 
prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent 
and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant. She 
was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted ; she seemed 
to have her mind entirely pre-occupied with the occasion of 
her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herself. 

“I speak to Mr. Harthouse.^” she said, when they were 
alone. 

“To Mr. Harthouse.” He added in his mind, “And you 
speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever saw, and the 
most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard.” 

“ If I do not understand — and 1 do not, sir ” — said Sissy, 
“what your honor as a gentleman binds you to, in other mat- 
te* ^ : ” the blood really rose in his face as she began in these 
wol^is : “I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret, 
and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon 
it, if you will tell me I may so far trust — ” 

“You may, I assure you.” 

“ I am young, as you see ; I am alone, as you see. In 
coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement beyond 
my own hope.” ' 


V£/?y RIDICULOUS. 


739 


He thought But that is very strong/’ as he followed the 
momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides, 
This is a very odd beginning. I don’t see where we are 
going.” 

‘‘I think,” said Sissy, ‘‘you have already guessed -whom 
I left just now ! ” 

“ I have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness 
during the last four-arid- twenty hours (which have appeared 
as many years),” he returned, “ on a lady’s account. The 
hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from 
that lady, do not deceive me, I trust.” 

“ I left her within an hour.” 

“ At ! ” 

“At her father’s.” 

Mr. Harthouse’s face lengthened in spite of his coolness, 
and his perplexity increased. “ Then I certainly,” he thought, 
“ do not see where we are going.” 

“ She hurried there last night. She arrived there in great 
agitation, and was insensible all through the night. I live at 
her father’s and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you will 
never see her again as long as you live.” 

Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath ; and, if ever man found 
himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made the 
discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. 
The child-like ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her 
modest fearlessness, her truthfulness which put all artifice 
aside, her entire forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet 
holding to the object with which she had come ; all this, 
together with her reliance on his easily given promise — which 
in itself shamed him — presented something in which he was 
so inexperienced, and against which he knew any of his usual 
weapons would fall so powerless ; that not a word could he 
rally to his relief. 

At last he said 

“ So startling an announcement, so confidently made, and 
by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last degree. May 
I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that 
information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of 
whom we speak ? ” 

“ I have no charge from her.” . , 

“ The drowning man catches at the straw. With no dis- 
respect for your judgment, and with.no doubt of your sincerity,, 
excuse my saying' 'that I clmg to the' bdi^^f 'IhaT' fh^red'S'Vdf 


740 


I/ARjD 7'IMES. 


hope that I am not condemned to perpetual exile from that 
lady’s presence.” 

“There is not the least hope. The. first object of my 
coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must believe that 
there is no more hope of your ever speaking with her again, 
than there would be if she had died when she came home last 
night.” 

“ Must believe } But if I can’t — or if .T should, by infirmity 
of nature, be obstinate — and won’t — ” 

“ It is still true. There is no hope.” 

James Harthouse looked at her with an incredulous smile 
upon his lips ; but her mind looked over and beyond him, and 
the smile was quite thrown away. 

He bit his lip, and took a little time for consideration. 

“ Well ! If it should unhappily appear,” he said, “ after 
due pains and duty on my part, that I am brought to a position 
so desolate as this banishment, I shall not become the lady’s 
persecutor. But you said you had no commission from 
her ? ” 

“ I have only the commission of my love for her, and her 
love for me. I have no other trust, than that I have been with 
her since she came home, and that she has given me her con- 
fidence. I have no further trust, than that I know something 
of her character and her marriage. O Mr. Harthouse, I 
think you had that trust too ! ” 

H e was touched in the cavity where his heart should have 
been — in that .nest of addled eggs, where the birds of heaven 
would liave lived if they had not been whistled away — by the 
fervor of this reproach. 

“I am not a moral sort of fellow,” he said, “ and I never 
make any pretensions to the character of a moral sort of fel- 
low. I am as immoral as need be. At the same time, in 
bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the 
present conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in 
any way, or in committing myself by any expression of senti- 
ments towards her, not perfectly reconcilable with — in fact 
with— the dom.estic hearth ; or in taking any advantage of her 
father’s being a machine, or of her brother’s being a whelp, 
or of her husband’s being a bear ; I beg to be allowed to 
assure you that I have had no particularly evil intentions, but 
have, glided on from one step to another with a smoothness 
f o perfectly diabolical, that I had nqt . the slightest idea the 
catalo^e was half so long until I began to turn it over. 


fy//^y RIDICULOUS. 


741 

Whereas I said Mr, James Harthouse, in conclusion, 

“ that it is really in several volumes.” 

Though he said all this in his frivolous way, the way 
seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly 
surface. He was silent for a moment ; and then proceeded 
with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation 
and disappointment that would not be polished out. 

‘‘ After what has been just now represented to me, in a 
manner I find it impossible to doubt — I know of hardly any 
other source from which I could have accepted it so readily — 
I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have 
mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to con- 
template the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing 
the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having 
come to this — and — and, I cannot say,” he added, rather hard 
up for a general peroration, “ that I have any sanguine ex- 
pectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I 
have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever.” 

Sissy’s face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was 
not finished. 

You spoke,” he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him 
again, of your first object. I may assume that there is a 
second to be mentioned.^” 

Yes.” 

Will you oblige me by confiding it ^ ” 

Mr. Harthouse,” returned Sissy, with a blending of 
gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with 
a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she re- 
quired, that held him at a* singular disadvantage, “ the * only 
reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately 
and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other 
way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure 
that it is the only compensation 3^ou have left it in your power 
to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough ; 
but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though 
without any other authority than I have given you, and even 
without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and 
myself, I ask you to depart from, this place to-night^ under an 
obligation never to return to it.” 

If she had asserted any influence oyer him beyond her 
plain' faith in the truth and right of what she said ; if she had 
concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harbored for 
-the he St. purpose, any. resen:e. or pretence ; if she had shown, 


742 


//AAVJ TIMES. 


or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule 
or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer ; he 
would have carried it against her at this point. But he could 
as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, 
as affect her. 

But do you know,’’ he asked, quite at a loss, “ the ex- 
tent of what you ask ? You probably are not aware that I 
am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in 
itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am 
supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner ? You 
probably are not aware of that, but I assure vou it’s the 
fact.” 

It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact. 

“ Besides which,” said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or 
two across the room, dubiously, it’s so alarmingly absurd. 
It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these 
fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way.” 

I am quite sure,” repeated Sissy, that it is the only 
reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would 
not have come here.” 

He glanced at her face, and walked about again. “ Upon 
my soul, I don’t know what to say. So immensely absurd ! ” 

It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. 

“ If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,” he said, 
stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney- 
piece, “ it could only be in the most inviolable confidence.” 

“ I will trust to you, sir,” returned Sissy, and you will 
trust to me.” 

His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of 
the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, 
and somehow he felt as if he were the whelp to-night. He 
could make no way at all. 

I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous 
position,” he said, after looking down, and looking up, and 
laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back 
again. ‘‘ But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. 
lliis will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine — 
in short, I engage to do it.” 

Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she 
was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. 

“You wall permit me to say,” continued Mr. James Hart- 
house, “ that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassa- 
dress, could have addressed me with the same success. I 


FJU^V RIDICULOUS. 


743 


must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous 
position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you 
allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy’s name ? ” 
My name ? ” said the ambassadress. 

The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night.” 

‘‘ Sissy Jupe.” 

“ Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family.? ” 

‘‘I am ■ only a poor girl,” returned Sissy. “I was sepa- 
rated from my father — he was only a stroller — and taken pity 
on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since.” 

She was gone. 

“ It wanted this to complete the defeat,” and said Mr. 
James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, 
after standing transfixed a little while. The defeat may 
now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl 
— only a stroUer — only James Harthouse made nothing of — • 
only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure.” 

The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. 
He took a uen upon the instant, and wrote the following note 
(in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother : 

Dear Jack, — All up at Cok'etown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. 

Affectionately, Jem. 

He rang the bell. 

Send my fellow here.” 

“ Gone to bed, sir.” 

“ Tell him to get up, and pack up.” 

He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, an- 
nouncing his retirement from that part of the country, and 
showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The 
other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon 
as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left 
the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway 
carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. 

The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Plart- 
house derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from 
this prompt retreat, as on® of his few actions that made any 
amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had 
escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not 
so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridicu- 
lous — a dread cf what other fellows who went in for similar 
sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it — so 
oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in 


744 


HARD TIMES. 


his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to 
on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of 
himself. 


CHAPTER III. 

VERY DECIDED. 

The indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon 
her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so 
racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dis- 
memberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in 
the metropolis ; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him 
at his hotel in St. James’s Street, exploded the combustibles 
with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed 
her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then 
fainted away on Mr. Boimderby’s coat-collar. 

Mr. Bounderby’s first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit 
off, and leave her to progress as she might through various 
stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the 
administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the 
patient’s thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her 
face, and inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions 
had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled her 
into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and 
carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive. 

Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. vSparsit was an interest- 
ing spectacle on her arrival at her journey's end ; l)ut con- 
sidered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by 
that time sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to 
admiration. Utterly heedless of the wear and tear of her 
clothes and constitution, and adamant to her pathetic sneezes, 
Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed lier into a coach, and 
bore her off to Stone Lodge. 

‘‘ Now^, Tom Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, bursting into 
his father-in-law’s room latent night; ‘"here’s a lady here — 
Mrs. Sparsit — you know Mrs. Sparsit— who has something to 
say to you that will strike you dumb.” 

You have missed my letter ! ’’ exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, 
surpri^d by the -apparition 


r>ECrDED. 


745 


Missed your letter, sir ! ” bawled Bounderby. “ 'Fhe 
present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk to 
Josiah Bounderby of Colfetown about letters, with his mind 
in the state it’s in now.” 

“ Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate 
remonstrance, “ I speak of a very special letter I have written 
to you, in reference to Louisa.” 

“Tom Gradgrind,” replied Bounderby. knocking the flat 
of his hand several times with great vehemence on the table, 
“ I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, in 
reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, stand forward 1 ” 

That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer testi- 
mony, without any voice and with painful gestures expressive 
of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent 
so many' facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to 
bear it, seized her by the arm and shook her. 

“ If you can’t get it out, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “ leave 
me to get it out. This is not a time for a lady, however highly 
connected, to be totally inaudible, and seemingly swallowing 
marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found herself, 
by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of 
doors between your daughter and your precious gentleman 
friend, Mr. James Harthouse.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ Ah ! Indeed ! ” cried Bounderby. “ And in that conver- 
sation ” 

“ It is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. I 
know what passed.” 

“You do Perhaps,” said Bounderby, starting with all 
his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in-law, “ you 
know where your daughter is at the present time ! ” 

“ Undoubtedly. She is here.” 

“ Here ” 

“ My dear Bounderby, let me beg you to restrain these 
loud outbreaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The mo- 
ment she could detach herself from that interview with the 
person of whom you speak, and whom I deeply regret to have 
been the means of introducing to you, Louisa hurried here, 
for protection. I myself had not been at home many hours, 
when I received her — here, in this room. She hurried by 
the train to town, she ran from town to this house through a 
raging storm, and presented herself before me in a state of 
distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever since. 

32 * 


//AA^D riMES. 


746 

Let me entreat you, for you own sake and for hers, to be more 
quiet.’’ , 

Mr. Bounclerby silently gazed about him for some moments, 
in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit’s direction ; and then, 
abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to 
that wretched woman : 

‘‘ Now, ma’am ! We shall be happy to hear any little 
apology you may think proper to offer, for going about the 
country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock- 
and-a-Bull, ma’am ! ’’ 

‘‘Sir,” whispered Mrs. Sparsit, “my nerves are at present 
too much shaken, and my health is at present too much im- 
paired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than taking 
refuge in tears.” 

(Which she did.) 

“Well, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “without making any 
observation to you that may not be made with propriety to a 
woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is that 
there is something else in which it appears to me you may 
take refuge, namely, a coach. And the coach in which we 
came here, being at the door, you’ll allow me to hand you 
down to it, and pack you home to the Bank : where the best 
course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the 
hottest water you can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum 
and butter after you get into bed.” With these words, Mr. 
Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady, and 
escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many 
plaintive sneezes by the way. He soon returned alone. 

. “ Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Gradgrind, 
that you wanted to speak to me,” he resumed, “ here I am. 
But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly : 
not relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering 
that I am at any time as dufifiilly and submissively treated 
by your daughter, as Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to 
be treated by his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say ; 
and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to 
me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you had 
better let it alone.” 

Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much softened, 
Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself at all 
points. It was his amiable nature. 

“ My dear Bounderby,” Mr. Gradgrind began in reply. 

“Now, you’ll excuse me,” said Boimderby, “but I don’t 


VERY DECIDED. 


1M 


want to be too dear. That, to start with. When I begin to 
be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention is to 
come over me. I am not speaking to you politely ; but, as 
you are aware, I am not polite. If you like politeness, you 
know where to get it. You have your gentleman-friends you 
know, and they’ll serve you with as much of the article as you 
want. I don’t keep it myself.” 

“ Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, we are all liable to 
mistakes — ” 

I thought you couldn’t make ’em,” interrupted Boun- 
derby. 

Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are all liable to 
mistakes ; and I should feel sensible of your delicacy, and 
grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to 
Harthouse. I shall not associate him in our conversation 
with your intimacy and encouragement ; pray do not persist 
in connecting him with mine.” 

I never mentioned his name,” said Bounderby. 

“ Well, well ! ” returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a patient, 
even a submissive air. And he sat for a little while ponder- 
ing. Bounderby, I see reason to doubt whether we have 
ever quite understood Louisa.” 

“ Who do mean by We ? ” 

Let me say I, then,” he returned, in answer to the 
coarsely blurted question ; 1 doubt whether I have under- 

stood Louisa. I doubt whether I have been quite right in the 
manner of her education.” 

“ There you hit it,” returned Bounderby. “ There I agree 
with you. You have found it out at last, have you ? Educa- 
tion ! I’ll tell you what education is — To be tumbled out of 
doors, neck and crop, and put upon the shortest allowance of 
everything except blows. That’s what /call education.” 

“ I think your good sense will perceive,” Mr. Gradgrind 
remonstrated in all humility, that whatever the merits of 
such a system may be, it would be difficult of general applica- 
tion to girls.” 

“ I don’t see it all, sir,” returned the obstinate Boun- 
derby. 

“Well,” sighed Mr. Gradgrind,' “ we will not enter into 
the question. I assure you I have no desire to be controver- 
sial. I seek to repair what is amiss, if I possibly can ; and I 
hope you will assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, for J 
have been very much distressed.” 


748 


TIMES, 


“ 1 don’t understand you, yet,^’ said Bounderby, with deter- 
mined obstinacy, ‘‘and therefore I won’t make any promises.” 

“ In the course of a few hours, my dear Bounderby,” Mr. 
Gradgrind proceeded, in the same depressed and propitia- 
tory manner, “ I appear to myself to have become better in- 
formed as to Louisa’s character, than in previous years. The 
enlightenment has been painfully forced upon me, and the dis- 
covery is not mine. I think there are — Bounderby, you will 
be surprised to hear me say this — I think there are qualities 
in Louisa, which — which have been harshly neglected, and — - 
and a little perverted. And — and I would suggest to you, 
that — that if you would kindly meet me in a timely endeavor to 
leave her to her better nature for a while — and to encourage 
it to develope itself by tenderness and consideration — it — it 
would be the better for the happiness of all of us. “ Louisa,” 
said Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, “has 
always been my favorite child.” 

The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to such 
an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and 
probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a 
bright purple shot with crimson, he pent up his indignation, 
however, and said : 

“ You’d like to keep her here for a time 1 ” 

“ I — I had intended to recommend, my dear Bounderby, 
that you should allow Louisa to remain here on a visit, and 
be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who 
understands her, and in whom she trusts.” 

“ I gather from this, Tom Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, 
standing up with his hands in his pockets, “ that you are of 
opinion that there’s what jDeople call some incompatibility be- 
tween Loo Bounderby and myself.” 

“ I fear there is at present a general incompatibility be- 
tween Louisa, and — and — and almost all the relations in 
which I have placed her,” was her father’s sorrowful reply. 

“ Now look you here, Tom Gradgrind,” said Bounderby the 
flushed, confronting him with his legs wide apart, his hands 
deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield wherein his 
windy anger was boisterous. “You have said your say; I 
am going to say mine. I -ram. a Coketown man. I am Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown. I know the bricks of this town, 
and I know the works of this town, and I know the chimneys 
of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know 
the Hands of this town. I know ’email pretty well. They’re 


Y DECIDED. 


749 


real. When a man tells me anything about imaginativ'e quali- 
ties, I always tell that man, whoever he is, that I know what 
he means. He means turtle-soup and venison, with a gold 
spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. 
That’s what your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion 
that she ought to have what she wants, I recommend you to 
provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never 
have it from me.” 

“ Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘‘ I hoped, after my en- 
treaty, you would have taken a different tone.” 

“Just wait a bit,” retorted Bounderby, '‘‘you have said 
your say, I believe. I heard you out ; hear me out, if you 
please. Don’t make yourself a spectacle of unfairness as 
well as inconsistency, because, although I am soriy to see 
Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present position, I should be 
doubly sorry to see him brought so low as that. Now, there’s 
an incompatibility of some sort or another, I am given to un- 
derstand by you, between your daughter and me. I’ll give 
you to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably 
is an incompatibility of the first magnitude — to be summed 
up in this — that your daughter don’t properly know her hus- 
band’s merits, and is not impressed with such a sense as 
would become her, by George ! of the honor of his alliance. 
That’s plain speaking, I hope.” 

“ Bounder]3y,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, this is unreasona- 
ble.” 

“ Is it } ” said Bounderby. “ I am glad to hear you say 
so. Because when Tom Gradgrind with his new lights, tells 
me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once 
it must be devilish sensible. With your permission I am go- 
ing on. Yoj .1 know my origin ; and you know that for a good 
many years of my life I didn’t want a shoeing-horn, in conse- 
quence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not, as 
you think proper, that there are ladies — born ladies — belong- 
ing to families — Families ! — who next to worship the ground 
I walk on.” 

Fie discharged this like a Rocket, at his father-in-law’s 
head. 

“Whereas your daughter,” proceeded Bounderby, “ is far 
from being a born lady. That you know, yourself. Not 
that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you 
are very well , aware I don’t ; but that such is the fact, and 
youV Tom Gradgrind, t'an’t change if. Why d-o Tsay t-his ? ” 


/ 


750 


HARD TIMES. 


‘‘ Not, I fear,” observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, 
^‘to spare me.” 

“ Hear me out,” said Bounderby, ‘‘ and refrain from cut- 
ting in till your turn comes round. I say this, because highly 
connected females have been astonished to see the way in 
which your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness 
her insensibility. They have wondered how I have suffered 
it. And L wonder myself now, and I won’t suffer it.” 

“ Bounderby,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising, the less 
we say to-night the better, I think.” 

‘‘ On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the more we say to- 
night, the better, I think. That is,” the consideration checked 
him, ‘‘ till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don’t care 
how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten 
the business. What do you mean by the proposal you made 
just now ? ” 

What do I mean, Bounderby t ” 

“ By your visiting proposition,” said Bounderby, with an 
inflexible jerk of the hayfield. 

“ I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange in a 
friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of repose and 
reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the 
better in many respects.” 

To a softening down of your ideas of incompatibility ? ” 
said Bounderby. 

“ If you put it in those terms.” 

What made you think of this ? ” said Bounderby. 

“ I have already said, I fear Louisa has not been under- 
stood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you, so far her 
elder, should aid in trying to set her right You have ac- 
cepted a great charge of her ; for better for worse, for — ” 

Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed by the repetition 
of his own words to Stephen Blackpool,, but he cut the quota- 
tion short with an angry start. 

Come ! ” said he, ‘‘ I don’t want to be told about that. 
I know what I took her for, as well as you do. Never you 
mind what I took her for ; that’s my look out.” 

‘‘ I was merely going on to remark, Bounderby, that we 
may all be more or less in the wrong, not even excepting you ; 
and that some yielding on your part, remembering the trust 
you have accepted, may not only be an act of true kindness, 
but perhaps a debt incurred towards Louisa.” 

“ I think differently,” blustered Bounderby. I am going 


j vj:av decided 


751 


to finish this business according to my own opinions. Now, 
I don’t want to make a quarrel of it with you, Tom Grad- 
grind. To tell you the truth, 1 don’t think it would be worthy 
of my reputation to quarrel on such a subject. As to your 
gentleman-friend, he may take himself off, wherever he likes 
best. If he falls in my way, I shall tell him my mind ; if he 
don’t fall in my way, I shan’t, for it won’t be worth my while to do 
it. As to your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby, and 
might have done better by leaving Loo Gradgrind, if she don’t 
come home to-morrow, by twelve o’clock at noon, I shall un- 
der-stand that she prefers to stay away, and I shall send her 
wearing apparel and so forth over here, and you’ll take charge 
of her for the future. What I shall say to people in general, 
of the incompatibility that led to my so laying down the law, 
will be this. I am Josiah Bounderby, and I had my bringing- 
up ; she’s the daughter of Tom Grandgrind, and she had her 
bringing-up ; and the two horses wouldn’t pull together. I am 
pretty well known to be rather an uncommon man, I believe ; 
and most people will understand fast enough that it must be 
a woman rather out of the common, also, who, in the long 
run, would come up to my mark.” 

Let me seriously entreat you to reconsider this, Boun- 
derby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, ^‘before you commit yourself to 
such a decision.” 

“ I always come to a decision,” said Bounderby, tossing 
his hat on : and whatever I do, I do at once. I should be 
surprised at Tom Grangrind’s addressing such a remark to 
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, knowing what he knows of 
him, if I could be surprised by anything Tom Gradgrind did, 
after his making himself a party to sentimental humbug. I 
have given you my decision, and I have got no more to say. 
Good-night ! ” 

So Mr. Bounderby went home to his town house to bed. 
At five minutes past twelve o’clock next day, he directed Mrs. 
Bounderby’s property to be carefully packed up and sent to 
Tom Gradgrind’s ; advertised his country retreat for sale by 
private contract : and resumed a bachelor life. 


75 '^ 


jF/AJ?D times. 


CHAPTER IV. 


LOST. 

The robbery at the Bank had not languished before, and 
did not cease to occupy a front place in the attention of the 
principal of that establishment now. In boastful proof of his 
promptitude and activity, as a remarkable man, and a self- 
made man, and a commercial wonder more admirable than 
Venus, who had risen out of the mud instead of the sea, he 
liked to show how little his domestic affairs abated his busi- 
ness ardor. Consequently, in the first few weeks of his re- 
sumed bachelorhood, he even advanced upon his usual dis- 
play of bustle, and every day made such a rout in renewing 
his investigations into the robbery, that the officers who had 
it in hand almost wished it had never been committed. 

They were at fault too, and off the scent. Although they 
had been so quiet since the first outbreak of the matter, that 
most people really did suppose it to have been abandoned as 
hopeless, nothing new occurred. No implicated man or 
woman took untimely courage, or made a self-betraying step. 
More remarkable yet, Stephen Blackpool could not be heard 
of, and the mysterious old woman remained a mystery. 

Things having come to this pass, and showing no latent 
signs of stirring beyond it, the upshot of Mr. Bounderby’s in- 
vestigations was, that he resolved to hazard a bold burst. He 
drew up a placard, offering Twenty Pounds reward for the ap- 
prehension of Stephen Blackpool, suspected of complicity in the 
robbery of the Coketown Bank on such a night ; he described 
the said Stephen Blackpool by dress, complexion, estimated 
height, and manner, as minutely as he could ; he recited how 
he had left the town, and in what direction he had been last 
seen going ; he had the whole printed in great black letters 
on a staring broadsheet ; and he caused the walls to be 
posted with it in the dead of night, so that it should strike 
upon the sight of the whole population at one blow. 

The factory-bells had need to ring their loudest that morn- 
ing to disperse the groups of workers who stood in the tardy 
daybreak, collected round the placards, devouring them with 
eager eyes. Not the least eager of the eyes assembled, were 


LOST. 


753 


the eyes of those who could not read. 1 hese people, as they 
listened to the, friendly voice that read aloud — there was 
always some such ready to help them— stared at the characters 
which meant so much with a vague awe and respect that 
would have been half ludicrous, if any aspect of public ignor- 
ance could ever be otherwise than threatening and full of 
evil. Many ears and eyes were busy with a vision of the 
matter of "these placards, among turning spindles, rattling ^ 
laoms, and whirring wheels, for hours afterwards ; and when 
the Hands cleared out again into the streets, there were still 
as many readers as before. 

Slackbridge, the delegate, had to address his audience too 
that night ; and Slackbridge had obtained a clean bill from 
the printer and had brought it in his pocket. O my friends 
and fellow countrymen, the down-trodden operatives of Coke- 
town, oh my fellow brothers and fellow workmen and fellow 
citizens and fellow men, what a to-do was there, when Slack- 
bridge unfolded what he called “ that damning document,’’ 
and held it up to the gaze, and for the execration of the work- 
ing-man community ! ‘‘ Oh my fellow men, behold of what a 

traitor in the camp of those great spirits who are enrolled 
upon the holy scroll of Justice and of Union, is appropriately 
capable ! Oh my prostrate friends, with the galling yoke of 
tyrants on your necks and the iron foot of despotism treading 
down your fallen forms into the dust of the earth, upon which 
right glad would your oppressors be to see you creeping on 
your bellies all the days of your lives, like the serpent in the 
garden — oh my brothers, and shall I as a man not add, 
my sisters too, what do you say, 7ww^ of Stephen Blackpool, 
with a slight stoop in his shoulders and about five foot seven 
in height, as set forth in this degrading and disgusting docu- 
ment, this blighting bill, this pernicious placard, this abomin- 
able advertisement ; and with what majesty of denouncement 
will you crush the viper, who would bring this stain and shame 
upon the God-like race that happily has cast him out forever ! 
Yes, my compatriots, happily cast him out and sent him 
forth! For you remember how he stood here before you on 
this platform ; you remember how, face to face and foot to 
foot, I pursued him through all his intricate windings ; you 
remember how he sneaked and slunk, and sidled, and splitted 
of straws, until, with not an inch of ground to which to cling, 

1 hurled him out from amongst us : an object for the undying 
finger of scorn to point at, and for the avenging fire of every 

48 


754 


I/ARD TIMES, 


free and thinking mind to scorch and sear ! And now my 
friends — my laboring friends, for I rejoice and triumph in 
that stigma — my friends whose hard but honest beds are made 
in toil, and whose scanty but independent pots are boiled in 
hardship ; and, now I say, my friends, what appellation has 
that dastard craven taken to himself, when, with the mask 
torn from his features, he stands before us in all his native 
deformity, a What ? A thief ! A plunderer ! A proscribed 
fugitive, with a price upon his head ; a fester and a wound 
upon the noble character of the Coketown operative ! There- 
fore, my band of brothers in a sacred bond, to which your 
children and your children’s children yet unborn have set 
their infant hands and seals, I propose to you on the part of 
the United Aggregate Tribunal, ever watchful for your wel- 
fare, ever zealous for your benefit, that this meeting does 
Resolve : That Stephen Blackpool, w^eaver, referred to in this 
placard, having been already solemnly disowned by the com- 
munity of Coketown Hands, the same are free from the shame 
of his misdeeds, and cannot as a class be reproached with his 
dishonest actions ! ” 

Thus Slackbridge ; gnashing and perspiring after a prodi- 
gious sort. A few stern voices called out “ No ! ” and a 
score or two hailed, with assenting cries of “ Hear, hear ! ” 
the caution from one man, ‘‘ Slackbridge, y’ or over better 
int ; y’ or a goen too fast ! ” But these were pigmies against 
an army ; the general assemblage subscribed to the gospel 
according to Slackbridge, and gave three cheers for him, as 
he sat demonstratively panting at them. 

These men and women were yet in the streets, passing 
quietly to their homes, when Sissy, who had been called away 
from Louisa some minutes before, returned. 

‘‘ Who is- it ! ” asked Louisa. 

“ It is Mr. Bounderby,” said Sissy, timid of the name, 
‘‘ and your brother Mr. Tom, and a young woman who says 
her name is Rachael, and that you know her.’ 

What do they want. Sissy dear ? ” 

“ They want to see you. Rachael has been crying, and 
seems angry.” 

“ Father,” said Louisa, for he was present, I cannot 
refuse to see them, for a reason that will explain itself. Shall 
they come in here ? ” 

As he answered in the affirmative. Sissy went away to bring 
them. She reappeared with them directly. Tom was last ; 


LOST. 


755 

and remained standing in the obscurest part of the room, near 
the door. 

“ Mrs. Bounderby,’’ said her husband, entering with a 
cool nod. I don’t disturb you, I hope. This is an un- 
seasonable hour, but here is a young woman who has been 
making statements which render my visit necessary. Tom 
Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom, refuses for some obstinate 
reason or other to say anything at all about those statements, 
good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your 
daughter.” 

“ You have seen me once before, young lady,” said 
Rachael, standing in front of Louisa. 

Tom coughed. 

“ You have seen me, young lady,” repeated Rachael, as 
she did not answ^er, ‘‘ once before.” 

Tom coughed again. 

“ I have.” 

Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr. Bounderby, 
and said, “ Will you make it known, young lady, where, and 
who was there ? ” 

“ I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on 
the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. 
He was there too ; and an old woman who did not speak, and 
whom I could scarcely see, stood in a dark I corner. My 
brother was with me.” / .j 

“Why couldn’t you say so, young Ton/?” demanded 
Bounderby. / 

“ I promised my sister I wouldn’t.” Which Louisa hastily 
confirmed. “ And besides,” said the^^help bitterly, “ she 
tells her own story so precious well— and so full — that what 
business had I to take it out of her mouth ! ” 

“ Say, young lady, if you please,” pursued Rachael, “why 
in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen’s that night.” 

“ I felt compassion for him,” said Louisa, her color deep- 
ening, “ and I wished to know what he was going to do, and 
wished to offer him assistance.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Bounderby. “Much flattered 
and obliged.” 

“ Did you offer him,” asked Rachael, “ a bank-note ? ” 

“Yes ; but he refused it, and would only take two pounds 
in gold.” 

Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again. 

“ Oh certainly ! ” said Bounderby. “ If you put Lhe ques' 


HARJ) TIMES. 


756 

tion whether your ridiculous and improbable account was true 
or not, I am bound to say it’s confirmed.” 

Young lady,” said Rachael, “Stephen Blackpool is now 
named as a thief in public print all over this town, and where 
else ! There have been a meeting to-night where he have 
been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen ! The 
honestest lad, the truest lad, the best ! ” Her indignation 
failed her, and she broke off sobbing. 

“ I am very, very soriy,’ said Louisa. 

“O young lady, young lady,” returned Rachael, “I hope 
you may be, but I don’t know ! I can’t say what you may ha’ 
done ! The like of you don’t know us, don’t care for us, don’t 
belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha’ come that 
night. I can’t tell but what you may ha’ come wi’ some aim 
of your own, not mindin to what trouble you brought such as 
the poor lad. I said then. Bless you for coming; and I said 
it of my heart, you seemed to take so pitifully to him ; but I 
don’t know now, I don’t know ! ” 

Louisa could not reproach her for her unjust suspicions ; 
she was so faithful to her idea of the man, and so afflicted. 

“ And when I think,” said Rachael through her sobs, 
“ that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin you so good to 
him — when I mind that he put his hand over his hard-worken 
face to hide the tears that you brought up there — O ! I hope 
yoiY may be sorry, and ha’ no bad cause to be it ; but I don’t 
know, I don’t know ! ” 

“You’re a pretty article,” growled the whelp, moving un- 
easily in his dark corner, “ to come here with these precious 
imputations ! You ought to be bundled out for not knowing 
how to behave yourself, and you would be by rights.” 

She said nothing in reply ; and her low weeping was the 
only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby spoke. 

“ Come ! ” said he, “ you know what you have engaged to 
do. You had better give your mind to that ; not this.” 

“ ’Deed, I am loath,” returned Rachael, drying, her eyes, 
“ that any here should see me like this ; but I won’t be seen 
so again. Young lady, when I had read what’s put in print 
of Stephen — and what has just as much truth in it as if it had 
been put in print of you — I went straight to the Bank to say I 
knew where Stephen was, and to give a sure and certain prom- 
ise that he should be here in two days. I couldn’t meet wi’ Mr. 
Bounderby then, and your brother sent me away, and I tried 
to find you, but you was not to, be found, and I went back to 


LOST 


757 


work. Soon as 1 come out of the Mill to-night, I hastened to 
hear what was said of Stephen — for I know wi’ pride he will 
come back to shame it i — and then I' went again to seek Mr. 
Bounderby, and I found him, and I told him every word 
I knew ; and he believed no word, I said, and brought me 
here.” 

‘•So far, that’s true enough,” assented Mr. Bounderby, 
with his hands in his pockets and his hat on. “ But I have 
known you people before to-day, you’ll observe, and I know 
you never die for want of talking. Now, I recommend you 
not so much to mind talking just now, as doing. You have 
undertaken to do something ; all I remark upon that at pres- 
ent is, do it ! ” 

“ I have written to Stephen by the post that went out this 
afternoon, as I have written to him once before sin’ he went 
away,” said Rachael ; ‘‘ and he will be here, at furthest, in 
two days.” 

“Then, I’ll tell you something. You are not aware per- 
haps,” retorted Mr. Bounderby, “ that you yourself have been 
looked after now and then, not being considered quite free 
from suspicion in this business, on account of most people 
being judged according to the company they keep. The 
post-office hasn’t been forgotten either. What I’ll tell you is, 
that no letter to Stephen Blackpool has ever got into it. 
Therefore, what has become of yours, I leave you to guess. 
Perhaps you’re mistaken, and never wrote any.” 

“ He hadn’t been gone from here, young lady,” said Ra- 
chael, turning appealingly to Louisa, “ as much as. a week, 
wlien he sent me the only letter I have had from him, saying 
that he was forced to seek work in another name.” 

“ Oh, by George ! ” cried Bounderby, shaking his head, 
with a whistle, “ he changes his name, does he ! That’s rather 
unlucky, too, for such an immaculate chap. It’s considered 
a little suspicious in Courts of Justice, I believe, when an In- 
nocent happens to have many names.” 

“ What,” said Rachael, with the tears in her eyes again, 
“ what, young lady, in the name of Mercy, was left the poor 
lad to do ! The masters against him on one hand, the men 
against him on the other, he only waitin to work hard in 
peace, and do what he felt right. Can a man have no soul of 
his own, no mind of his own ? Must he go wrong all through 
wi’ this side, or must he go wrong all through wi’ that, or else 
be hunted like a hare ? ’’ 


HARD TJiMES. 


75S 

^Mndeed, indeed, I pity him from my hearty’’ returned 
Louisa ; “ and I hope that he will clear himself.” 

‘‘ You need have no fear oh that, young lady. He is 
sure ! ” 

“All the surer, I suppose,” said Mr. Bounderby, “for 
your refusing to tell where he is ^ Eh ? ” 

“ He shall not, through any act of mine, come back wi’ 
the unmerited retDroach of being brought back. He shall 
come back of his owiwaccord to clear himself, and put all 
those that have injured his good character, and he not here 
for its defence, to shame. I have told him what has been 
done against him,” said Rachael, throwing off all distrust as 
a rock throws off the sea, “ and he will be here, at furthest, 
in two days.” 

“Notwithstanding which,” added Mr. Bounderby, “if he 
can be laid hold of any sooner, he shall have an earlier op- 
portunity of clearing himself. As to you, I have nothing 
against you ; what you came and told me turns out to be true, 
and I have given you the means of proving it to be true, and 
there’s an end of it. I wish you good-night all 1 I must be 
off to look a little further into this.” 

Tom came out of his corner when Mr. Bounderby moved, 
moved with him, kept close to him, and went away with him. 
The only parting salutation of which he delivered himself was 
a sulky “ Good-night, father ! ” With a brief speech, and a 
scowl at his sister, he left the house. 

Since his sheet-anchor had come home, Mr. Gradgrind 
had been sparing of speech. He still sat silent, when Louisa 
mildly said : 

“ Rachael, you will not distrust me one day, when you 
know me better.” 

“ It goes against me,” Rachael answered, in a gentler 
manner, “ to mistrust any one ; but when I am so mistrusted 
■ — when we all are — I cannot keep such things quite out of 
my mind. I ask your pardon for having done you an injury. 
I don’t think what I said now. Yet I might come to think it 
again, wi’ the poor lad so wronged.” 

“ Did you tell him in your letter,” inquired Sissy, “ that 
suspicion seemed to have fallen upon him, because he had 
been seen about the Bank at night ^ He would then know 
what he would have to explain on coming back, and would be 
ready.” 

“ Yes dear,” she returned ; “ but 1 can’t guess what cao 


LOST, 


759 


have ever taken him there. He never used to go there. It 
was never in his way. His way was the same as mine, and 
not near it.” 

Sissy had already been at her side asking her where she 
lived, and whether she might come to-morrow night, to in- 
quire if there were news of him. 

I doubt,” said Rachael, ‘‘ if he can he here till next 

day.” 

Then I will come next night too,” said Sissy. 

When Rachael, assenting to this, was gone, Mr. Gradgrind 
lifted up his head, and said, to his daughter : 

Louisa, my dear, I have never, that I know of, seen this 
man. Do you believe him to be implicated ? ” 

“ I think I have believed it, father, though with great dif- 
ficulty. I do not believe it now.” 

“ That is to say, you once persuaded yourself to believe 
it, from knowing him to be suspected. His appearance and 
manner ; are they so honest ? ” 

Very honest.” 

And her confidence not to be shaken ! I ask myself,” 
said Mr. Gradgrind, musing, “ does the real culprit know of 
these accusations ? Where is he ? Who is he ^ ” 

His hair had latterly began to change its color. As he 
leaned upon his hand again, looking gray and old, Louisa, 
with a face^of fear and pity, hurriedly went over to him, and 
sat close at his side. His eyes by accident met Sissy’s at the 
moment. Sissy flushed and started, and Louisa put her fin- 
ger on her lip. 

Next night, when Sissy returned home and told Louisa 
that Stephen was not come, she told it in a whisper. Next 
night again, when she came home with the same account, and 
added that he had not been heard of, she spoke in the same 
low frightened tone. From the moment of that interchange 
of looks, they never uttered his name, or any reference to him, 
aloud ; nor ever pursued the subject of the robbery, when Mr. 
Gradgrind spoke of it. 

The two appointed days ran out, three days and nights 
ran out, and Stephen Blackpool was not come, and remained 
unheard of. On the fourth day, Rachael, with unabated con- 
fidence, but considering her despatch to have miscarried, went 
up to the Bank, and showed her letter from him with his 
address, at a working colony, one of many, not upon the main 
road, sixty miles away. Messengers were sent to that place, 


TIMES. 


760 

and the whole town looked for Stephen to be brought in next 
day. 

During this whole time the whelp moved about with Mr. 
Bounderby like his shadow, assisting in all the proceedings. 
He was greatly excited, horribly fevered, bit his nails down to 
the quick, spoke in a hard rattling voice, and with lips that 
were black and burnt up. At the hour when the suspected 
man was looked for, the whelp was at the station ; offering to 
wager that he had made off before the arrival of those who 
were sent in quest of him, and that he would not appear. 

The whelp was right. The messengers returned alone. 
Rachael’s letter had gone, Rachael’s letter had been delivered, 
Stephen Blackpool had decamped in that same hour ; and no 
soul knew more of him. The only doubt in Coketown was, 
whether Rachael had written in good faith, believing that he 
really would come back, or warning him to fly. On this point 
opinion was divided. 

Six days, seven days, far on into another week. The 
wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly courage, and began to 
grow defiant. “ Was the suspected fellow the thief ! A 
pretty question ! If not, where was the man, and why did he 
not come back ? ” 

Where was the man, and why did he not come back } — In 
the dead of night the echoes of his own words, which had 
rolled Heaven knows how far away in the day-time, came 
back instead, and abided by him until morning. 


CHAPTER V. 

FOUND. 

Day and night again, day and night again. No Stephen 
Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come 
back } 

Every night. Sissy went to Rachael’s lodging, and sat with 
her in her small neat room. All day, Rachael toiled as such 
people must toil, whatever their anxieties. The smoke- 
serpents were indifferent who was lost or found, who turned 
out bad or good ; the melancholy mad elephants, like the 


FOUND. 


761 

Hard Fact men, abated nothing of their set routine, whatever 
happened. Day and night again, day and night again. The 
monotony was unbroken. Even Stephen Blackpool’s dis- 
appearance was falling into the general way, and, becoming as 
monotonous a wonder as any ^ piece of machinery in Coke- 
town. 

“ I misdoubt,” said Rachael, ‘4f there is as many as 
twenty left in all this place, who have any trust in the poor 
dear lad now.” 

She said it to Sissy, as they sat in her lodging, lighted 
only by the lamp at the street corner. Sissy had come there 
when it was already dark, to await her return from work ; and 
they had since sat at the window where Rachael had found 
her, wanting no brighter light to shine on their sorrowful talk. 

“ If it hadn’t beon mercifully brought about, that I was to 
have you to speak to,” pursued Rachael, ‘‘ times are, when I 
think my mind would not have kept right. Buf I get hope 
and strength through you ; and you believe that though 
appearances may rise against him, he will be proved clear ? ” 
I do believe so,” returned Sissy, ‘‘with my whole heart. 
I feel so certain, Rachael, that the confidence you hold in 
yours against all discouragement, is not like to be wrong, that 
I have no more doubt of him than if I had known him through 
as many years of trial as you have.” 

“ And I, my dear,” said Rachael, with a tremble in hei 
voice, “ have known him through them all, to be, according to 
his quiet ways, so faithful to everything honest and good, that 
if he was never to be heard of more, and I was to live to be a 
hundred years old, I could say with my last breath, God 
knows my heart. I have never once left trusting Stephen 
Blackpool ! ” 

“ We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, that he will be 
freed from suspicion, sooner or later.” 

“ The better I know it to be so believed there, my dear,” 
said Rachael, “ and the kinder I feel it that you come away 
from there, purposely to comfort me, and keep me company, 
and be seen wi’ me when I am not yet free from all suspicion 
myself, the more grieved I am that I should ever have spoken 
those mistrusting words to the young lady. And yet — ” 

“ You don’t mistrust her now, Rachael ? ” 

“Now that you have brought us more together, no. But 
I can’t at all times keep out of my mind—” 

Her voice so sunk into a low and slow communing with 


//AA\D TIMES. 


762 

herself, that Sissy, sitting by her side, was obliged to listen 
with attention. 

“ I can’t at all times keep out of my mind, mistrustings of 
some one. I can’t think who ’tis, I can’t think how or why it 
may be done, but I mistrust that some one has put Stephen 
out of the way. I mistrust that by his coming back of his 
own accord, and showing himself innocent before them all, 
some one would be confounded, who — to prevent that-^has 
stopped him, and put him out of the way.” 

‘‘ That is a dreadful thought,” said Sissy, turning pale. 

It is a dreadful thought to think he may be murdered.’^ 

Sissy shuddered, and turned paler yet. 

“ When it makes its way into my mind, dear,” said 
Rachael, “ and it will come sometimes, though I do all I can 
to keep it out, wi’ counting on to high numbers as I work, and 
saying over and over again pieces that I knew when I were a 
child — I fall into such a wild, hot hurry, that, however tired I 
am, I want to walk fast, miles and miles. I must get the 
better of this before bed-time. I’ll walk home wi’ you.” 

‘‘ He might fall ill upon the journey back,” said Sissy, 
faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope ; ‘‘ and in such a case, 
there are many places on the road where he might stop.” 

“ But he is in none of them. He has been sought for in 
all, and he’s not there.” 

“ True,” was Sissy’s reluctant admission. 

“ He’d walk the journey in two days. If he was footsore 
and couldn’t walk,' I sent him, in the letter he got, the money 
to ride, lest he should have none of his own to spare.” 

‘‘ Let us hope that to-morrow will bring something better, 
Rachael. Come into the air ! ” 

Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael’s shawl upon her 
shining black hair in the usual manner of her wearing it, and 
they went out. The night being fine, little knots of Hands 
were here and there lingering at street-comers ; but it was 
supper-time with the greater part of them, and there were but 
few people in the streets. 

“You’re not so hurried now, Rachael, and your hand is 
cooler.” 

“ I get better, dear, if I can only walk, and breathe a little 
fresh. ’Times when I can’t, I turn weak and confused.” 

“ But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, for you may be 
wanted at any time to stand by Stephen. To-morrow is 
Saturday. If no news comes to-morrow, let us walk in the 


FOUND. 763 

country on Sunday morning, and strengthen you for another 
week. Will you go ? ” 

“ V^es, dear.” 

They were by this time in the street where Mr. Bounder^ 
by’s house stood. The way to Sissy’s destination led them 
past the door, and they were going straight towards it. Some 
train had newly arrived in Coketown, which had put a number 
of vehicles in motion, and scattered a considerable bustle 
about the town. Several coaches were rattling before them 
and behind them as they approached Mr. Bounderby’s, and 
one of the latter drew up with such briskness as they were in 
the act of passing the house, that they looked round involun- 
tarily. The bright gaslight over Mr. Bounderby’s steps 
showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the coach, in an ecstasy, of 
excitement, struggling to open the door ; Mrs. Sparsit seeing 
them at the same moment, called to them to stop. 

“ It’s a coincidence,” exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, as she was 
released by the coachman. ‘‘ It’s a Providence ! Come out, 
ma’am!” then said Mrs. Sparsit to some one inside, ‘‘come 
out, or we’ll have you dragged out 1 ” 

Hereupon, no other than the mysterious old woman de- 
scended. Whom Mrs; Sparsit incontinently collared. 

“ Leave her alone, everybody ! ” cried Mrs. Sparsit, with 
great energy. “ Let nobody touch her. She belongs to me. 
Come in, ma’am!” then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her 
former word of command. “ Come in, ma’am, or we’ll have 
you dragged in ! ” 

The spectacle of a matron of classical deportment, seizing 
an ancient woman by the throat, and hailing her into a dwelling- 
house, would have been under any circumstances, sufficient 
temptation to all true English stragglers so blest as to witness 
it, to force a way into that dwelling-house and see the matter 
out. But when the phenomenon was enhanced by the noto- 
riety and mystery by this time associated all over the town, with 
the Bank robbery, it would have lured the stragglers in, with 
an irresistible attraction, though the roof had been expected 
to fall upon their heads. Accordingly, the chance witnesses 
on the ground, consisting of the busiest of the neighbors to 
the number of some five-and-twenty, closed in after Sissy and 
Rachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsit and’ her prize ; 
and the whole body made a disorderly irruption into Mr. 
Bounderby’s dining-room, where the people behind lost not 
a moment’s time in mounting on the chairs, _to get the better 
of the people in front. 


764 


HARD TIMES. 


Fetch Mr. Bounderby down ! cried Mrs. Sparsit. 
“ Rachael, young woman ; you know who this is ? ” 

“ It’s Mrs. Pegler,” said Rachael. 

I should think it is ! ” cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting. 
‘‘ Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away, everybody ! ” Here old 
Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and ^shrinking from observa- 
tion, whispered a word of entreaty. Don’t tell me,” said 
Mrs. Sparsit, aloud, I have told you twenty times, coming 
along, that I will not leave you till I have handed you over to 
him myself.” 

Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr. Grad- 
grind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding a con- 
ference up stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than 
hospitable, at the sight of this uninvited party in his dining- 
room. 

“ Why, what’s the matter now ! ” said he. ‘‘ Mrs. Sparsit, 
ma’am ? ” 

‘‘Sir,” explained that worthy woman, “I trust it is my 
good fortune to produce a person you have much desired 
to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, 
and connecting together such imperfect clues to the part 
of the country in which that person might be supposed 
to reside, as have been afforded by the young woman, Rachael, 
fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happiness 
to succeed, and to bring that person with me — ;I need not say 
most unwillingly on her part. It has not been, sir, without 
some trouble that I have effected this ; but trouble in your 
service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and cold a real 
gratification.” 

Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased ; for Mr. Bounderby’s visage 
exhibited an extraordinary combination of all possible colors 
and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was dis- 
closed to his view. 

“Why, what do you mean by this ? ” was his highly un- 
expected demand, in great warmth. “ I ask you. what do 
you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am ? ” 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed Mrs'. Sparsit, faintly. 

“ Why don’t you mind your own business, ma’am ? ” roared 
Bounderby. “ How dare you go and poke your officious nose 
into my family affairs ? ” 

This allusion to her favorite feature overpowered Mrs. 
Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were 
frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly 


FOUND. 765 

grated her mittens against one another, as if they were frozen 
too. 

‘‘ My clear Josiah ! ” cried Mrs. Pegler, trembling. “ My 
darling boy ! I am not to blame. It’s not my fault, Josiah. 
I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she was 
doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do 
it.” 

‘‘What did you let her bring you for.? Couldn’t you 
knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or Scratch her, or do 
something or other to her ? ” asked Bounderby. 

“ My own boy ! She threatened me that if I resisted her, I 
should be brought by constables, and it was better to come 
quietly than make that stir in such a — ” Mrs. Pegler glanced 
timidly but proudly round the walls — “ such a fine house as this. 
Indeed, indeed, it is not my fault ! My dear, noble, stately 
boy! I have always lived quiet and secret, Josiah, my dear. 
I have never broken the condition once. I have never said I 
was your mother. I have admired you at a distance ; and if 
I have come to town sometimes, with long times between, to 
take a peep at you, I have done it unbeknown, my love, and 
gone away again.” 

Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked in 
impatient mortification up and down the side of the long 
dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every sylla- 
ble of Mrs. Pegler’s appeal, and at each succeeding syllable 
became more and more round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still 
walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Grad- 
grind addressed that maligned old lady : 

“ I am surprised, madam,” he observed with severity, 
“ that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr. Bound- 
erby for your son after your unnatural and inhuman treat- 
ment of him.” 

“ Me unnatural 1 ” cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. “ Me in- 
human ! To my dear boy.? ” 

“ Dear ! ” repeated Mr. Gradgrind. “ Yes ; dear in self- 
made prosperity, madam, I dare say. Not very dear, however, 
when you deserted him in his infancy, and left him to the 
brutality of a drunken grandmother.” 

“/ deserted my Josiah I ” cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her 
hands, “ Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your wicked imagina- 
tions, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor 
mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May 
you repent of it, sir, and live to know better 1 ” 


766 


r/AA^n 'JVAJES. 


She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr. Gradgrind, 
shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said in a 
gentler tone : 

“ Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son to — • 
to be brought up in the gutter } ” 

‘‘Josiah in the gutter!^’ exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. ‘‘No 
such a thing, sir. Never ! For shame on you ! My dear 
boy knows, and will give you to know, that though he come of 
humble parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as 
the best could, and never thought it hardship on themselves 
to pinch a bit that he might write and cipher beautiful, and 
IVe his books at home to show it ! Ay, have I ! ” said Mrs. 
Pegler, with indignant pride. “And my dear boy knows, and 
will give you to know, sir, that after his beloved father died 
when he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a 
bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and her pride to do it, 
to help him out in life, and put him ’prentice. And a steady 
' lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and 
well he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. 
And /’ll give you to know, sir — for this my dear boy won’t — 
that though his mother kept but a little village shop, he never 
forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty pound a 3^ear — more 
than I want, for I put by out of it — only making the condition 
that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts 
about him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except 
with looking at him once a year, when he has never knowed 
it. And it’s right,” said poor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionate 
championship, “ that I should keep down in my own part, and 
I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbe- 
fitting things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my 
pride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love for love’s own 
sake ! And I am ashamed of you, sir,” said Mrs. Pegler, 
lastly, “ for your slanders and suspicions. And for I never 
stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my 
dear son said no. And I shouldn’t be here now, if it hadn’t 
been for being brought here. And for shame upon you, O for 
shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son, with 
my son standing here to tell you so different ! ” 

The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs, raised 
a murmer of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind 
felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predica- 
ment, when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up 
and down, and had every moment swelled larger and larger, 
and grown redder and redder stopped short. 


FOUND. 


767 

“ I don’t exactly know,” said Mr. Bounderby, how I come 
to be favored with the attendance of the present company, but 
I don’t inquire. When they’re quite satisfied, perhaps they’ll 
be so good as to disperse ; whether they’re satisfied or not, 
perhaps they’ll be so good as to disperse. I’m not bound to 
deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken 
to do it, and I’m not going to do it. Therefore those who 
expe'bt any explanation whatever upon that branch of the sub- 
ject, will be disappointed — particularly Tom Gradgrind, and 
he can’t know it too soon. In reference to the Bank robbery, 
there has been a mistake made, concerning my mother. If 
there hadn’t been over-officiousness it wouldn’t have been 
made, and I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether or no. 
Good-evening ! ” 

Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in these terms, 
holding the door open for the company to depart, there was a 
blustering sheepishness upon him, at once extremely crest- 
fallen and superlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully of 
humility, who had built his windy reputation upon lies, and in 
his boastfulness had put the honest truth as far away from him 
as if he had advanced the mean claim (there is no meaner) to 
tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. 
With the people filing off at the door he held, who he knew 
would carry what had passed to the whole town, to be given 
to the four winds, he could not have looked a Bully more 
shorn and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. Even that 
unlucky female, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacle of 
exultation into the Slough of Despond, was not in so bad a 
plight as that remarkable man and self-made Humbug, Josiah 
Bounderby of Coketown, 

Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to occupy a bed at 
her son’s for that night, walked together to the gate of Stone 
Lodge and there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined them before 
they had gone very far, and spoke with rnuch interest of 
Stephen Blackpool ; for whom he thought this signal failure 
of the suspicions against Mrs. Pegler was likely to work vTell. 

As to the whelp ; throughout this scene as on all other 
late occasions, he had stuck close to Bounderby. He seemed 
to feel that as long as Bounderby could make no discovery 
without his knowledge, he was so far safe. He never visited 
his sister, and had only seen her once since she^went home ; 
that is to say on the night when he still stuck close to 
Bounderby, as already related. 


768 


TIMES. 


There was one dim unformed fear lingering about liis 
sister’s mind, to which she never gave utterance, which sur- 
rounded the graceless and ungrateful boy with a dreadful 
mystery. The same dark possibility had presented itself in 
the same shapeless guise, this very day, to Sissy, when E.achael 
spoke of some one who would be confounded by Stephen’s 
return, having put him out of the way. Louisa had never 
spoken of harboring any suspicion of her brother in connection 
with the robbery, she and Sissy had held no confidence on 
the subject, save in that one interchange of looks when the 
unconscious father rested his gray head on his hand ; but it 
was understood between them, and they both knew it. This 
other fear was so awful, that it hovered about each of them 
like a ghostly shadow ; neither daring to think of its being 
near herself, far less of its being near the other. 

And still the forced spirit which the whelp had plucked up, 
throve with him. If Stephen Blackpool was not the thief, let 
him show himself. Why didn’t he 1 

Another night. Another day and night. No. Stephen 
Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come 
back } 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE STARLIGHT. 

The Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, clear and 
cool, when early in the morning Sissy and Rachael met, to 
walk in the country. 

As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own head but on 
the neighborhood’s too — after the manner of those pious per- 
sons who do penance for their own sins by putting other 
people into sackcloth — it was customary for those who now 
and then thirsted for a draught of pure air, which is not 
absolutely the most wicked among the vanities of life, to get a 
few miles away by the railroad, and then begin their walk, or 
their lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael, helped them- 
selves out of the smoke by the usual means, and were put 
down at a stallion about midway between the town and Mr. 
Bounderby’s retreat. 


THE STARLIGHT. 


769 

Though the green landscape was blotted here and there 
with heaps of coal, it was green elsewhere, and there w^ere 
trees to see, and there were larks singing (though it was Sun- 
day), and there were pleasant scents in the air, and all was 
over-arched by a bright blue sky. In the distance one way, 
Coketown showed as a black mist ; in another distance hills 
began to rise ; in a third, there was a faint change in the 
light of the horizon wher^ it shone upon the far-olf-sea. Under 
their feet, the grass was fresh ; beautiful shadows of branches 
flickered upon it, and speckled it ; hedgerows were luxuriant ; 
everything was at peace. Engines at pits’ mouths, and lean 
old horses that had worn the circle of their daily labor into 
the ground, w^ere alike quiet ; wheels had Ceased for a short 
space to turn ; and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve 
without the shocks and noises of another time. 

They walked on across the fields and down the shady 
lanes, sometimes getting over a fragment of a fence so rotten 
that it dropped at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near 
a wreck of bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking 
the site of deserted works. They followed paths and tracks, 
however slight. Mounds where the grass was rank and high, 
and where brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, 
were confusedly heaped together, they always avoided; for 
dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits hidden 
beneath such indications. 

The sun was high when they sat down to rest. They had 
seen no one, near or distant, for a long time ; and the solitude 
remained unbroken. “ It is so still here, Rachael, and the 
way is .so untrodden, that I think we must be the first who 
have been here all the summer.” 

As Sissy said itj her eyes were attracted by another of 
those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She got up 
to look at it. And yet I don’t know. This has not been 
broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. 
Here are footsteps too. — O Rachael ! ” 

She ran back, and caught her round the neck. Rachael 
had already started up. 

‘‘ What is the matter ? ” 

“ I don’t know. There is a hat lying in the grass.” 

They went forward together. Rachael took it up, shaking 
from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and 
lamentations : Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand 
on the inside. 

83 


770 


HARD TIMES. 


“ O the poor lad, the po'or lad ! He has been made away 
with. He is lying murdered here ! 

“Is there- — has the hat any blood upon it Sissy lab 
tered. 

They were afraid to look ; but they did examine it, and 
found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying 
there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the 
mark of its shape was on the grass where it had fallen. They 
looked fearfully about them, without moving, but could see 
nothing more. “ Rachael,” Sissy whispered, “ I will go on a 
little by myself.” 

She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of step- 
ping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a 
scream that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, 
at their very feet, was the brink of a black ragged chasm 
hidden by the thick grass. They sprang back, and fell upon 
their knees, each hiding her face upon the other’s neck. 

“ O, my good Lord ! He’s down there ! Down there ! ” 
At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that could be 
got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any repre- 
sentations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her ; 
and it was deadly necessary to hold her, or she would have 
flung herself down the shaft. 

“ Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love of 
Heaven, not these dreadful cries ! Think of Stephen, think 
of Stephen, think of Stephen ! ” 

By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out in all 
the agony of such a moment. Sissy at last brought her to be 
silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone. 

“Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn’t leave 
him lying maimed at the bottom of this dreadful place, a mo- 
ment, if you could bring help to him ? ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” 

“ Don’t stir from here, for his sake ! Let me go and 
listen.” 

She shuddered to approach the pit ; but she crept towards 
it on her hands and knees, and called to him as loud as she 
could call. She listened, but no sound replied. She called 
again and listened ; still no answering sound. She clid this, 
twenty, thirty times. She took a little clod of earth from the 
broken ground where he had stumbled, and threw it in. Sim 
could not hear it fall. 

The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a few 


THE STARLIGHT, 


771 


minutes ago, almost carried despair to her brave heart, as she 
rose and looked, all round her, seeing no help. Rachael, we 
must not lose a moment. We must go in different directions, 
seeking aid. You, shall go by the way we Ifhve come, and I 
will go forward by the path. Tell any one you see, and every 
one what has happened. Think of Stephen, think of 
Stephen ! ” 

She knew by Rachael’s face that she might trust her now. 
And after standing for a moment to see her running, wringing 
her hands as she ran, she turned and went upon her own 
search ; she stopped at the hedge, to tie her. shawl there as a 
guide to the place, then threw her bonnet aside, and ran as 
she had never run before. 

Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven’s name ! Don’t stop for 
breath. Run, run ! Quickening herself by carrying such en- 
treaties in her thoughts, she ran from field to field, and lane 
to lane, and place to place, as she had never run before ; until 
she came to a shed by an engine-house, where two men lay in 
the shade, asleep on straw. 

First to wake them, and next to tell them, all so wild and 
breathless as she was, what had brought her there, were diffi- 
culties ; but they no sooner understood her than their spirits 
were on fire like hers. One of the men was in a drunken 
slumber, but on his comrade’s shouting to him that a man had 
fallen down the Old Hell Shaft, he started out to a pool of 
dirty water, put his head in it, and came back sober. 

With these two men she ran to another half a mile further, 
and with that one to another, while they ran elsewhere. Then 
a horse was found ; and she got another man to ride for life 
or death to the railroad, and send a message to Louisa, which 
sho wrote and gave him. By this time a whole village was 
up ; and windlasses, ropes, poles, candles, lanterns, all things 
necessary, were fast collecting and being brought into one 
place, to be carried to the Old Hell Shaft. 

It seemed now hours and hours since she had left the lost 
man lying in the grave where he had been buried alive. She 
could not bear to remain away from it any longer — it was like 
deserting him — and she hurried swiftly back, accompanied by 
half-a-dozen laborers, including the drunken man whom the 
news had sobered, and who was the best man of all. When 
they came to the Old Hell Shaft, they found it as lonely as 
she had left it. The men called and listened as she had 
done, and examined the edge of the chasm, and settled it how 


772 


//AJ^n TIA/£S. 


it had happened, and then sat down to wait until the imple- 
ments they wanted should come up. 

Every sound^ of insects in the air, every stirring of the 
leaves, every whisper among these men, made Sissy tremble, 
for she thought it was a cry at the bottom of the pit. But the 
wind blew idly over it, and no sound arose to the surface, and 
tliey sat upon the grass, waiting and waiting. After they had 
waited some time, straggling people who had heard of the 
accident began to come up ; then the real help of implements 
began to arrive. In the midst of this, Rachael returned ; and 
with her party there was a surgeon, who brought some wine 
and medicines. But, the expectation among the people that 
the man would be found alive, was very slight indeed. 

There being now people enough present to impede the 
work, the sobered man put himself at the head of the rest, or 
was put there by the general consent, and made a large ring 
round the Old Hell Shaft, and appointed men to keep it. Be- 
sides such volunteers as were accepted to work, only Sissy and 
Rachael were at first permitted within this ring ; but, later in 
the day, when the message brought an express from Coke- 
town, Mr. Gradgrind and Louisa, and Mr. Bounderby, and 
the whelp, were also there. 

The sun was four hours lower than when Sissy and 
Rachael had first sat down upon the grass, before a means of 
enabling two men to descend securely was rigged with poles 
and ropes. Difficulties had arisen in the construction of this 
machine, simple as it was ; requisites had been found wanting 
and messages had had to go and return. It was five o^clock 
in the afternoon of the bright autumnal Sunday, before a 
candle was sent down to try the air, while three or four rough 
faces stood crowded close together, attentively watching it ; 
the men at the windlass lowering as they were told. The 
candle was brought up again, feebly burning, and then some 
water was cast in. Then the bucket was hooked on ; and the 
sobered man and another got in with lights, giving the word 
‘‘ Lower away ! 

As the rope went out, tight and strained, and the windlass 
creaked, there was not a breath among the one or two hun- 
dred men and women looking on, that came as it was wont to 
come. The signal was given and the windlass stopped, with 
abundant rope to spare. Apparently so long an interval en- 
sued with the men at the windlass standing idle, that some 
women shrieked that another accident had happened ! But 


THE STARLIGHT. 


773 


the surgeon who held the watch, declared five minutes not to 
have elapsed yet, and sternly admonished them to keep 
silence. He had not well done speaking, when the windlass 
was reversed and^ worked again. Practised eyes knew that it 
did not go as heavily as it would if both workmen had been 
coming up, and that only one was returning. 

The rope came in tight and strained ; and ring after ring 
was coiled upon the barrel of the windlass, and all eyes were 
fastened on the pit. The sobered man was brought up and 
leaped out briskly on the grass. There was an universal cry 
of ‘‘ Alive or dead ? ’’ and then a deep, profound hush. 

When he said “ Alive ! ” a great shout arose and many 
eyes had tears in them. 

‘‘ But he’s hurt very bad,” he added, as soon as he could 
make himself heard again. “ Where’s doctor He’s hurt 
so very bad, sir, that we donno how to get him up.” 

They all consulted together, and looked anxiously at the 
surgeon, as he asked some questions, and shook his head on 
receiving the replies. The sun was setting now ; and the red 
light in the evening sky touched every face there, and caused 
it to be distinctly seen in all its wrapt suspense. 

The consultation ended in the men returning to the wind- 
lass, and the pitman going down again, carrying the wine and 
some other small matters with him. Then the other man 
came up. In the meantime, under the surgeon’s directions, 
some men brought a hurdle, on which others made a thick 
bed of spare clothes covered with loose straw, while he him- 
self contrived some bandages and slings from shawls and 
handkerchiefs. As these were made,' they were hung upon 
an arm of the pitman who had last come up, with instructions 
how to use them : and as he stood, shown by the light he car- 
ried, leaning his powerful loose hand upon one of the poles, 
and sometimes glancing down the pit, and sometimes glancing 
round upon the people, he was not the least conspicuous figure 
in the scene. It was dark now, and torches were kindled. 

It appeared from the little this man said to those about 
him, which was quickly repeated all over the circle, that the 
lost man had fallen upon a mass of crumbled rubbish with 
which the pit was half choked up, and that this fall had been 
further broken by some jagged earth at the side. He lay 
upon his back with one arm doubled under him, and accord- 
ing to his own belief had hardly stirred since he fell, except 
that he had moved his free hand to a side pocket, in which 


}/A/^/) TIMES. 


7 74 

he remembered to have some bread and meat (of which he 
had swallowed crumbs) and had likewise scooped up a little 
water in it now and then. He had come straight away from 
his work, on being written to, and had walked the whole jour- 
ney ; and was on his way to Mr. Bounderby’s country-house 
after dark, when he fell. He was crossing that dangerous 
country at such a dangerous time, because he was innocent 
of what was laid to his charge, and couldn’t rest from coming 
the nearest way to deliver himself up. The Old Hell Shaft, 
the pitman said, with a curse upon it, was worthy of its bad 
name to the last ; for though Stephen could speak now, he 
believed it would soon be found to have mangled the life out 
of him. 

When all was ready, this man, still taking his last hurried 
charges from his comrades and the surgeon after the windlass 
had begun to lower him, disappeared into the pit. The rope 
went out as before, the signal was made as before, and the 
windlass stopped. No man removed his hand from it now. 
Every one w^aited with his grasp set, and his body went down 
to the work, ready to reverse and wind in. At length the 
signal was given, and all the ring leaned forward. 

For, now, the rope came in, tightened and strained to its 
utmost as it appeared, and the men turned heavily, and the 
windlass complained. It was scarcely endurable to look at 
the rope, and think of its giving way. But, ring after ring 
was coiled upon the barrel of the windlass safely, and the 
connecting chains appeared, and finally the bucket with the 
two men holding on at the sides — a sight to make the head 
swim, and oppress the heart — and tenderly supporting be- 
tween them, slung and tied within, the figure of a poor, 
crushed, human creature. 

A low murmur of pity went round the throng, and the 
women wept aloud, as this form, almost without form, was 
moved very slowly from its iron deliverance, and laid upon 
the bed of straw. At first, none but the surgeon went close 
to it. He did what he could in its adjustment on the couch, 
but the best that he could do was to cover it. That gently 
done, he called to him Rachael and Sissy. And at that time 
the pale, worn, patient face was seen looking up at the sky, 
with the broken right hand lying bare on the outside of the 
covering garments, as if waiting to be taken by another hand. 

They gave him drink, and moistened his face with water, 
and administered some drops of cordial and wine- Though 


THE STARLIGHT 


775 

he lay quite motionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and 
said, ‘‘ Rachael/' 

She stooped down on the grass at his side, and bent ovei 
him until her eyes were between his and the sky, for he could 
not so much as turn them to look at her. 

‘‘ Rachael, my dear.” 

She took his hand. He smiled again and said, Don’t 
let ’t go.” 

Thou ’rt in great pain, my own dear Stephen ? ” 

‘‘ I ha’ been, but not now. I ha’ been — dreadful, and 
dree, and long, my dear — but ’tis ower now. ' Ah, Rachael, 
aw a muddle ! Fro’ first to last, a muddle ! ” 

The spectre of his old look seemed to pass as he said the 
word. 

“ I ha’ fell into th’ pit, my dear, as have cost wi’in the 
knowledge o’ old fok now livin, hundreds and hundreds o’ 
men’s lives — fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an 
thousands, an keeping ’em fro’ want and hunger. I ha’ fell 
into a pit that ha’ been wi’ th’ Fire-damp crueller than battle. 
I ha’ read on ’t in the public petition, as onny one may read, 
fro’ the men that works in pits, in which they ha’ pray’n and 
pray’n the lawmakers for Christ’s sake not to let their work 
be murder to ’em, but to spare ’em for th’ wives and children 
that they loves as well as gentlefok loves theirs. When it 
were in work, it killed wi’out need ; when ’tis let alone, it 
kills wi’out need. See how we die an no need, one way an 
another — in a muddle — every day ! ” 

He faintly said it, without any anger against any one. 
Merely as the truth. ' 

Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgot her. 
Thou ’rt not like to forget her now, and me so nigh her. 
Thou know’st — poor, patient, sufi’rin, dear— how thou didst 
work for her, seet’n all daylong in her little chair at thy 
winder, and how she died, young and misshapen, awlung o’ 
sickly air as had’n no need to be, an awlung o’ working peo- 
ple’s miserable homes. A muddle ! Aw a muddle ! ^ 

Louisa approached him ; but he could not see her, lying 
with his face turned up to the night sky. 

If aw th’ things that tooches us, my dear, was not so 
muddled, I should’n ha’ had’n need to coom heer. If we was 
not in a muddle among ourseln, I should’n ha’ been, by my 
own fellow weavers and workin’ brothers, so mistook. If Mr 
Bounderby had ever know’d me right — if he’d ever know’d me 


HARD TIMES. 


776 

at aw — he would’n ha’ took’n offence wi’ me. He would’n ha’ 
suspect’n me. But look up yonder, Rachael ! Look aboove ! ” 

Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a star. 

“ It ha’ shined upon me,” he said reverently, in my pain 
and trouble down below. It ha’ shined into my mind. I ha’ 
look’ll at ’t and thowt o’ thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my 
mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha’ 
been wantin’ in unnerstan’in me better, I, too, ha’ been 
wantin’ in unnerstan’in them better. When I got thy letter, 

I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to 
me, and what her brother sen and done to me^ was one, and 
that there were a wicked plot betwixt ’em. When I fell, I 
were in anger wi’ her, an hurryin’ on t’ be as onjust t’ her as 
oothers was t’ me. But. in our judgments, like as in our 
doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an trouble, 
lookin up yonder — wi’ it shinin’ on me — I ha’ seen more 
clear, and ha’ made it my dyin prayer that aw th’ world may 
on’y coom toogether more, an get a better unnerstan’in o’ 
one another, than when I were in’t my own weak seln.” 

Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him on the op-^ 
posite side to Rachael, so that he could see her. 

“ You ha’ heard } ” he said, after a few moments’ silence, 

‘‘ I ha’ not forgot you, ledy.” 

“ Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And your prayer is 
mine.” 

“ You ha’ a father. Will you take a message to him ? ” 

‘‘ He is here,” said Louisa, with dread. Shall I bring 
him to you ? ” 

If you please.” 

Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-in-hand, 
they both looked down upon the solemn countenance. 

Sir, yo will clear me and mak my name good wi’ aw 
men. This I leave to yo.” 

Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how ? 

“Sir,” was the reply: “yor son will tell yo how. Ask 
him. I mak no charges : I leave none ahint me : not a single 
word. I ha’ sen and spok’n wi’ yor son, one night. I ask no 
more o’ yo than that yo clear me — an I trust to yo to do ’t.” 

The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and the 
surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torches 
or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it 
was raised, and while they were arranging how to go, he said 
to Rachael, looking upward at the star : 


WHELF-HUNTING. 


777 


Often as I coom to m3^seln, and found it shinin on me 
down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star as guided 
to Our Saviour’s home. I awmust think it be the very star ! ” 

They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that they 
were about to take him in the direction whither the star 
seemed to him to lead. 

“ Rachael, beloved lass ! Don’t let go my hand. We may 
walk toogether t’night, my dear ! ” 

I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee, Stephen, all 
the way.” 

Bless thee ! Will soombody be pleased to coover my 
face I ” 

They carried him very gently along the fields, and down 
the lanes, and over the wide landscape ; Rachael always 
holding the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the 
mournful silence. It was soon a funeral procession. The 
star had shown him where to find the God of the poor ; and 
through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to 
his Redeemer’s rest. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHELP-HUNTING. 

Before the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft was 
broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. 
Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who 
held her father’s arm, but in a retired place by themselves. 
When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the couch. Sissy, 
attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked 
shadow — a sight in the horror of his face, if there had been 
eyes there for any sight but one — and whispered in his ear. 
Without turning his head, he conferred with her a few 
moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the 
circle before the people moved. 

When the father reached home, he sent a message to Mr. 
Bounderby’s, desiring his son to come to him directly. The 
reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the 


HARD TIMES. 


778 

crowd, and seeing nothing of him since, had supposed him to 
be at Stone Lodge. 

“ I believe, father,^! said Louisa, he will not come back 
to town to-night.” Mr. Gradgrind turned away, and said no 
more 

In the morning he went down to the Bank himself as soon 
as it was opened, and seeing his son’s place empty (he had 
not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street 
to meet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said 
that, for reasons he would soon explain, but entreated not 
then to be asked for, he had found it necessary to employ his 
son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged 
with the duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool’s memory, 
and declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, 
stood stock-still in the street after his father-in-law had left 
him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without its 
beauty. 

Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room, 
and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped at 
his door, he said, without opening it, Not now, my dears ; 
in the evening.” On their return in the evening, he said, ‘‘ I 
am not able yet — ^to-morrow.” He ate nothing all day, and 
had no candle after dark ; and they heard him walking to and 
fro late at night. 

But, in the morning he appeared at breakfast at the usual 
hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and bent 
he looked, and quite bowed down ; and yet he looked a wiser 
man, and a better man, than in the days when in this life he 
wanted nothing but Facts. Before he left the room, he ap- 
pointed a time for them to come to him ; and so, with his gray 
head drooping, went away. 

‘‘ Dear father,” said Louisa, Vv^hen they kept their appoint- 
ment, ‘‘you have three young children left. They wilTbo 
different, / will be different yet, with Heaven’s help.” 

She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her help 

too. 

“ Your wretched brother,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ Do you 
think he had planned this robbery, when he went with you to 
the lodging ” 

I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money very 
much, and had spent a great deal.” 

“ The poor man being about to leave the town, it cani« 
into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him } ” 


IVIJELP-IIUNTING. 


in 


I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat there, 
father. For, I asked him to go there with me. The visit did 
not originate with him.’’ 

‘‘ He had some conversation with the poor man. Did he 
take him aside ? ” 

“ He took him out of the room. I asked him afterw^ards, 
why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse ; but 
since last night, father, and when I remember the circum- 
stances by its light, I am afraid I can imagine too truly what 
passed between them.” 

Let me know,” said her father, ‘Hf your thoughts pre- 
sent your guilty brother in the same dark view as mine.” 

I fear, father,” hesitated Louisa, ‘ ■ that he must have 
made some representation to Stephen Blackpool — perhaps in 
my name, perhaps in his own — which induced him to do in good 
faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to 
wait about the Bank those two or three nights before he left 
the town.” 

Too plain ! ” returned the father. Too plain ! ” 

He shaded his face, and remained silent for some moments. 
Recovering himself, he said : 

‘‘And now, how is he to be found? How is he to be 
saved from justice ? In the few hours that I can possibly 
allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be 
found by us, and only by us ? Ten thousand pounds could 
not effect it.” 

“ Sissy has effected it, father.” 

He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good fairy in 
his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and grateful 
kindness, “ It is always you, my child ? ” 

“ We had our fears. Sissy explained, glancing at Louisa, 
“ before yesterday ; and when I saw you brought to the side 
of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being close to 
Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and 
said to him, ‘ Don’t look at me. See where your father is. 
Escape at once, for his sake and your own ! ’ He was in a 
tremble before I whispered to him, and he started and 
trembled more then, and said, ‘ Where can I go ? I have very 
little money, and I don’t know who will hide me 1 ’ I thought 
of father’s old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Sleary 
goes at this time of year, and I read of him in a paper only 
the other day. I told him to hurry there, and tell his name, 
and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him till I came. ‘ I’ll get to him 


I/A/C£> TIMES, 


780 

before the morning/ he said. And I saw him shrink away 
among the people.” 

Thank Heaven ! ” exclaimed his father. He may be 
got abroad yet.” 

It was the more hopeful as the town to which Sissy had 
directed him was within three hours’ journey of Liverpool, 
whence he could be swiftly dispatched to any part of the 
world. But, caution being necessary in communicating with 
him — for there was a great danger every moment of his being 
suspected now, and nobody could be sure at heart but that 
Mr. Bounderby himself, in a bullying vein of public zeal, 
might play a Roman part — it was consented that Sissy and 
Louisa should repair to the place in question, by a circuitous 
course, alone ; and that the unhappy father, setting forth in 
an opposite direction, should get round to the same bourne 
by another and wider route. It was further agreed that he 
should not present himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions 
should be mistrusted, or the intelligence of his arrival should 
cause his son to take flight anew ; but, that the communica- 
tion should be left to Sissy and Louisa to open ; and that 
they should inform the cause of so much misery and disgrace, 
of his father’s being at hand and of the purpose for which 
they had come. When these arrangements had been well 
considered and were fully understood by all three, it was time 
to begin to carry them into execution. Early in the afternoon, 
Mr. Gradgrind walked direct "from his own house into the 
country, to be taken up on the line by which he w’^as to travel ; 
and at night the remaining two set forth upon their different 
course, encouraged by not seeing any face they knew. 

The two travelled all night, except when they were left for 
odd numbers of minutes, at branch-places, up illimitable flights 
of steps, or down wells — ^which w^as the only variety of those 
branches — and, early in the morning, were turned out on a 
swamp, a mile or two from the town they sought. From this 
dismal spot they were rescued by a savage old postilion, who 
happened to be up early, kicking a horse in a fly : and so were 
smuggled into the town by all the back lanes where the pigs 
lived : which although not a magnificent or even savory ap- 
proach, was, as is usual in such cases, the legitimate high- 
way. 

The first thing they saw on entering the town was the skele- 
ton of Sleary’s Circus. The company had departed for another 
town more than twenty miles off, and had opened there last 


miELP-~//LLVTIxVG. 


781 

night. The connection between the two places was by a hilly 
turnpike-road, and the travelling on that road was very slow. 
Though they took but a hasty breakfast, and no rest (which it 
would have been in vain to seek under such anxious circum- 
stances), it was noon before they began to find the bills of 
Sleary’s Horseriding on barns and walls, and one o’clock 
when they stopped in the market-place. 

A Grand Morning Performance by the Riders, commencing 
at that very hour, was in course of announcement by the bell- 
man as they set their feet upon the stones of the street. Sissy 
recommended that, to avoid making inquiries and attracting 
attention in the town, they should present themselves to pay 
at the door. If Mr. Sleary were taking the money, he would 
be sure to know her, and would proceed with discretion. If 
he were not he would be sure to see them inside ; and, know- 
ing what he had done with the fugitive, would proceed with 
discretion still. 

Therefore, they repaired, with fluttering hearts, to the well- 
remembered booth. The flag with the inscription Sleary’s 
Horseriding, was there ; and the Gothic niche was there ; 
but Mr. Sleary was not there. Master Kidderminster, grown 
too maturely turfy to be received by the wildest credulity as 
Cupid any more, had yielded to the invincible force of circum- 
stances (and his beard), and, in the capacity of a man who 
made himself generally useful, presided on this occasion over 
the exchequer — having also a drum in reserve, on which to 
expend his leisure moments and superfluous forces. In the 
extreme sharpness of his look out for base coin, Mr. Kidder- 
minster, as at present situated, never saw anything but money ; 
so vSissy passed him unrecognized, and they went in. 

The Emperor of Japan, on a steady old white horse 
stenciled with black spots, was twirling five wash-hand basins 
at once, as it is the favorite recreation of that monarch to do. 
Sissy, though well acquainted with his Royal line, had no per- 
sonal knowledge of the present Emperor, and his reign was 
peaceful. Miss Josephine Sleary, in her celebrated graceful 
Equestrian Tyrolean Flower-Act, was then announced by'a 
new clown (who humorously said Cauliflower Act), and Mr. 
Sleary appeared, leading her in. 

Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at the Clown with his 
long whip-lash, and the Clown had only said, If you do it 
again, I’ll throw the horse at you ! ” when Sissy was recognjzed 
both by father and daughter. But they got through the Act 


I/AKD 7'IMES 


782 

with great self-possession, and Mr. Sleary, saving for the first 
instant, conveyed no more expression into his locomotive eye 
than into his fixed one. The performance seemed a little 
long to Sissy and Louisa, particularly when it stopped to 
afford the Clown an opportunity of telling Mr. Sleary (who 
said Indeed, sir! ” to all his observations in the calmest way, 
and with his eye on the house), about two legs sitting on three 
legs looking at one leg, when in came four legs, and laid hold 
of one leg, and up got two legs, caught hold of three legs, and 
threw ’em at four legs, who ran away with one leg. For, 
although an ingenioCis Allegory relating to a butcher, a three- 
legged stool, a dog, and a leg of mutton, this narrative con- 
sumed time ; and they were in great suspense. At last, how- 
ever, little fair-haired Josephine made her curtsey amid great 
applause ; and the Clown, left alone in the ring, had just 
warmed himself, and said, ‘‘ Now /’ll have a turn I ” when 
Sissy was touched on the shoulder, and beckoned out. 

She took Louisa with her ; and they were received by Mr. 
Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas sides, a 
grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box 
company stamped their approbation, as if they were coming 
through. “ Thethilia,” said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and 
water at hand, it doth me good to thee you. You wath 
alwayth a favorith with uth, and you’ve done uth credith 
thinth the old timeth I’m thure. You mutht thee our people, my 
dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they’ll break their hearth 
— ethpethially the women. Here’th Jothpine hath been and 
got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, 
and though he’th only three yearth old, he thtickth on to any 
pony you can bring againtht him. He’th named The Little 
Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation ; and if you don’t hear of 
that boy at Athley’th, you’ll hear of him at Parith. And you 
recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather 
thweet upon yourthelf ? Well. He’th married too. Married 
a widder. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tight- 
rope, thee wath, and now thee’th nothing — on accounth of fat 
They’ve got two children, tho we’re thtrong in the Fair}^ bith- 
nith and the Nurthary dodge. If you wath to thee our 
Children in the Wood, with their father and mother both a 
dyin’ on a horthe — their uncle a rethieving of ’em ath hith 
wardth, upon a horthe — themthelvth both a goin’ a blackber- 
ryin’^ on a horthe — and the Robinth a coming in to cover ’em 
with leavth, upon a horthe — ^}^ou’d thay it wath the complet* 


WHELP-HUNTING. 


7S3 

etht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on ! And you re- 
member Emma Gordon, my dear, atli wath a’motht a mother 
to you? Of courthe you do; I needn’t athk. Well! Em- 
ma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw’d a heavy back- 
fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the 
Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it ; 
and thee married a thecond time^ — married a Cheethemonger 
ath fell in love with her from the front — and he ’th a Over- 
theer and makin’ a fortun.” 

These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of breath 
now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderful kind 
of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and- 
watery old veteran he was. Afterwards he brought in Jose- 
phine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather deeply-lined in the jaws 
by daylight), and the Little Wander of Scholastic Equitation, 
and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they 
were in Louisa’s eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so 
scant of dress, and so demonstrative of leg ; but it was very 
agreeable to see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural 
in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears. 

There ! Now Thethilia hath kithd all the children, 
and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with 
all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for 
the thecond part ! ” 

As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. 

Now, Thethilia, I don’t athk to know any thecreth, but I 
thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire.” 

This is his sister. Yes.” 

And ’t other on ’th daughter. Tliat ’h what I mean. 
Hope I thee vou well, mith. And I hope the Thquire ’th 
well ? ” 

‘‘ My father will be here soon,” said Louisa, anxious to 
bring him to the point. Is my brother safe ? ” 

Thafe and thound ? ” he replied. “ I want you jutht to 
take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here. Thethilia, you 
know the dodgeth ; find a thpy-holQi|or yourthelf.” 

They each looked through a chink in the boards. 

That ’h Jack the Giant Killer — piethe of comic infant 
bithnith,” said Sleary. “ There’th a property-houthe, you 
thee, for Jack to hide in ; there’th my Clown with a thauthepan- 
lid and a thpit, for Jack’th thervant ; there’th little Jack him- 
thelf in a thplendid thoot of armor ; there’th two comic black 
thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and 


//AJ^jD times. 


784 

to bring it in and clear it ; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive 
bathket one), he an’t on yet. Now, do you thee ’em all ? ” 
Yes,” they both said. 

Look at ’em again,” said Sleary, look at ’em well. 
You thee ’em all ? Very good. Now, mith he put a form 
for them to sit on ; ‘‘I haye my opinionth, and the Thquire 
your father hath hith. I don’t want to know what your brother 
’th been up to ; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, 
the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia, and I’ll thand by the 
Thquire. Your brother ith one o’ them black thervanth.” 

Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress, partly of 
satisfaction. 

“ Ith a fact,” said Sleary, and even knowin’ it, you 
couldn’t put your finger on him. Let the Thquire come. I 
thall keep your brother here after the performanth. I thant 
undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire 
come here after the performanth, or come here yourthelf after 
the performanth, and you thall find your brother, and have 
the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of 
him, ath long ath he ’th well hid.” 

Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load, de- 
tained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for her 
brother, with her eyes full of tears ; and she and Sissy went 
away until later in the afternoon. 

Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards. He 
too had encountered lio one whom he knew ; and was now 
sanguine with Sleary’s assistance, of getting his disgraced son 
to Liverpool in the ni^ht. As neither of the three could be 
his companion without almost identifying him under any dis- 
guise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent whom he could 
trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to 
North or South America, or any distant part of the world to 
which he could be the most speedily and privately dis- 
patched. 

This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus to 
be quite vacated ; not d tiy by the audience, put by the com- 
pany and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they 
saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down by the side- 
door, smoking ; as if that were his signal that they might ap- 
proach. 

“ Your thervant, Thquire,” was his cautious salutation as 
they passed in. If you want me you’ll find me here. You 
muthn’t mind your thon having a comic livery on.” 


WHELP-HUNTING. 


785 

They all three went in ; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down for- 
lorn, on the Clown’s performing chair in the middle of the 
ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued 
light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous 
whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his 
son. 

In a preposterous coat, like a beadle’s, with cuffs and 
flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent ; in an immense 
waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked 
hat ; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse ma- 
terial, moth-eaten and full of holes ; with seams in his black 
face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy 
composition, daubed all over it ; anything so grimly, detesta- 
bly, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, 
Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed 
in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one 
of his model children had corpe to this 1 

At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted 
in remaining up there by hiniself. Yielding at length, if 
any concession so sullenly made pan be called yielding, to 
the entreaties of Sissy — for Louisa he disowned altogether — 
he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, 
on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits 
from where his father sat. 

How was this done 1 ” asked the father. 

“ How was what done 't ” moodily answered the son. 

This robbery,” said the father, raising his voice upon the 
word. 

‘‘ I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar 
before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made 
long^before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be sup- 
posed to have been used. I didn’t take the money all at 
once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but 
I didn’t. Now you know all about it.” 

“ If a thunderbolt had fallen on me,” said the father, it 
would have shocked me less than this ! ” 

I don’t see why,” grumbled the son. “ So many peo- 
ple are employed in situations of trust ; so many people, out 
of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hum 
dred times, of its being a law. How can I help laws ? You 
have comforted others with such tilings, father. Comfort 
yourself ! ” 

The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood 


//A/^n TIMES. 


786 

in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw : his hands, with 
the black partly worn away inside, looking like the hands of 
a monkey. The evening was fast closing in ; and from time 
to time, he turned the whites of his eyes restlessly and impa- 
tiently towards his father. They were the only parts of his 
face that showed any life* or expression, the pigment upon it 
was so thick. 

You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad.” 

‘ I suppose I must. I can’t be more miserable anywhere,’' 
whimpered the whelp, ‘‘ than I have been liere, ever since I 
caii remember. That’s one thing.” 

Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returned with Sleary, 
to whom he submitted the question. How to get this deplora- 
ble object away ? 

“Why, I’ve been thinking of it, Thquire. There’th not 
muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay yeth or no. Ith over 
twenty mileth to the rail. Thereth a coath in half an hour, 
that g(;jeth to the rail, ’purpothe to cath the mail train. That 
train will take him right to Liverpool.” 

“ But look at him,” groaned Mr. Gradgrind. “ Will any 
coach — ” 

“ I don’t mean that he should go in the comic livery,” said 
Sleary. “Thay the word, and I’ll make a Jothkin of him, out 
of the wardrobe, in five minutes.” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ A Jothkin — a Carter. Make up your mind quick, 
Thquire. There’ll be beer to feth. I’ve never met with 
nothing but beer ath’ll ever clean a comic blackamoor.” 

Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented ; Mr. Sleary rapidly 
turned out from a box, a smock frock, a felt hat, and other 
essentials ; the whelp rapidly changed clothes behind a SGreen 
of baize ; Mr. Sleary rapidly brought beer, and washed him 
white again. 

“ Now,” said Sleary, “ come along to the coath, and jump 
up behind ; I’ll go with you there, and they’ll thuppothe you 
one of my people. Thay farewell to your family, and tharp’th 
the word.” With which he delicately retired, 

“ Here is your letter,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “ All neces- 
sary means will be provided for you. Atone, by repentance 
and better conduct, for the shocking action you have com- 
mitted, and the dreadful consequences to which it has led. 
Give me your hand, my poor boy, and may God forgive you 
as I do ! ” ‘ 


PHILOSOPHICAL 


787 

The culprit was moved to a few abject tears by these 
words and their pathetic tone. But, when Louisa opened her 
arms, he repulsed her afresh. 

“Not you. I don’t want to have anything to say to you ! ’■ 

“ O Tom, Tom, do we end so, after all my love 1 ” 

“ After all your love 1 ” he returned, obdurately. “ Pretty 
love ! Leaving old Bounderby to himself, and packing my 
best friend Mr. Harthouse off, and going home just when I 
was in the greatest danger. Pretty love that ! Coming out 
with every word about our having gone to that place, when 
you saw the net was gathering round me. Pretty love that ! 
You have regularly given me up. You never cared for me.” 

“ Tharp’th the word ! ” said Sleary, at the door. 

They all confusedly went out : Louisa crying to him that 
she forgave him, and loved him still, and that he would one 
day be sorry to have left her so, and glad to think of these 
her last words, far away : when .some one ran against them. 
Mr. Gradgrind and Sissy, who were both before him while his 
sister yet clung to his shoulder, stopped and recoiled. 

For, there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thin lips parted, 
his thin nostrils distended, his white eyelashes quivering, his 
colorless face more colorless than ever, as if he ran himself 
into a white heat, when other people ran themselves into a 
glow. There he stood, panting and heaving, as if he had 
never stopped since the night, now long ago, when he had run 
them down before. 

“ I’m sorry to interfere with your plans,” said Bitzer, shak- 
ing his head ; “ but I can’t allow myself to be done by horse- 
riders. I must have young Mr. Tom ; he mustn’t be got away 
by horseriders ; here he is in a smock frock, and I must have 
him ! ” 

By the collar, too, it seemed. For, so he took possession 
of him. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PHILOSOPHICAL. 

They went back into the booth, Sleary shutting the door 
to keep intruders out. Bitzer, still holding the paralyzed cul- 


TIMES. 


788 

prit by the collar, stood in the Ring, blinking at his old 
patron through the darkness of the twilight. 

Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, broken down, and misera- 
bly submissive to him, have you a heart ? 

‘‘The circulation, sir,’’ returned Bitzer, smiling at the 
oddity of the question, “ couldn’t be carried on without one. 
No man, sir, acquainted with the facts established by Harvey 
relating to the circulation of the blood, can doubt that I have 
a heart.” 

“Is it accessible,” cried Mr. Gradgrind, “to any compas- . 
sionate influence ? ” 

“It is accessible to Reason, sir,’’ returned the excellent 
3^oung man. “ And to nothing else.” 

They stood looking at each other ; Mr. Gradgrind’s face 
as white as the pursuer’s. 

“What motive — even what motive in reason — can you 
have for preventing the escape of this wretched youth,” said 
Mr. Gradgrind ; “ and crushing his miserable father ? See 
his sister here. Pity us ! ” 

“ Sir,” returned Bitzer, in a very business-like and logical 
manner, “ since you ask me what motive I have in reason, for 
taking young Mr. Tom back to Coke town, it is only reason- 
able to let you know. I have suspected young Mr. Tom of 
this bank-robbery from the first. I had had my eye upon him 
before that time, for I knew his ways. I have kept my ob- 
servations to myself, but I have made them ; and I have got 
ample proofs against him now, besides his running away, and 
besides his own confession, which I was just in time to over- 
hear. I had the pleasure of w^atching your house yesterday 
morning, and following you here. I am going to take young 
Mr. Tom back to Coketown, in order to deliver him over to 
Mr. Bounderby. Sir, I have no doubt whatever that Mr. 
Bounderby will then promote me to young Mr. Tom’s situa- 
tion. And I wish to have his situation, sir, for it wall be a 
rise to me, and will do me good.” 

“ If this is solely a question of self-interest with you ” 

Mr. Gradgrind began. 

“ I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir,” returned 
Bitzer ; “but I am sure you know that the whole social s^^s- 
tem is a question of self-interest. What you must always 
appeal to, is a person’s self-interest. It’s your only hold. 
We are so constituted. I was brought up in that catechism 
when I was very young, sir, as you are aware.” 


PHILOSOPHICAL, 789 

“ What sum of money,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ will you set 
against your expected promotion ” 

“Thank you, sir,” returned Bitzer, “for hinting at the 
proposal ; but I will not set any sum against it. Knowing 
that your clear head would propose that alternative, I have 
gone over the calculations in my mind ; and I find that to 
compound a felony, even on very high terms indeed, would 
not be as safe and good for me as my improved prospects in 
the Bank.” 

“ Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, stretching out his hands as 
though he would have said. See how miserable I am ! “ Bit- 

zer, I have but one chance left to soften you. You were 
many years at my school. If, in remembrance of the pains 
bestowed upon you there, you can persuade yourself in any 
degree to disregard your present interest and release my son, 
I entreat and pray you to give him the benefit of that remem- 
brance.” 

“ I really wonder, sir,” rejoined the old pupil in an argu- 
mentative manner, “ to find you taking a position so untenable. 
My schooling was paid for ; it was a bargain ; and when I 
came away, the bargain ended.” 

It was a fundamental principle of the Gradgrind philos- 
ophy that everything was to be paid for. Nobody was ever 
. on any account to give anybody anything, or render anybody 
help without purchase. Gratitude was to be abolished, and 
the virtues springing from it were not to be. Every inch of 
the existence of mankind, from birth to death, was to be a 
bargain across a counter. And if we didn’t get to Heaven 
that way, it was not a politico-economical place, and we had 
no business there. 

“I don’t deny,” added Bitzer, “ that my schooling was 
cheap. But that comes right, sir. I was made in the cheapest 
market, and have to dispose of myself in the dearest.” 

He was a little troubled here, by Louisa and Sissy crying. 

“ Pray don’t do that,” said he, “ it’s of no use doing that : 
it only worries. You seem to think that I have some animos- 
ity against young Mr. Tom ; whereas I have none at all. I 
am only going, on the reasonable grounds I have mentioned, 
to take him back to Coketown. If he was to resist, I should 
set up the cry of Stop Thief ! But, he won’t resist, you may 
depend upon it.” 

Mr. Sleary, who with his mouth open and his rolling eye 
as immovably jammed in his head as his fixed one, had listened 


790 


HARD TIMES. 


to these doctrines witli profound attention, here stepped for- 
ward. 

Thquire, you know perfectly well, and your daughter 
knowth perfectly well (better than you, becauthe I thed it to 
her), that I didn’t know what your thon had done, and that I 
didn’t want to know — I thed it wath better not, though I only 
thought, then, it wath thome thkylarking. However, thith 
young man having made it known to be a robbery of a bank, 
why, that’ll a theriouth thing ; muth too theriouth a thing foi 
me to compound, ath thith young man hath very properly 
called it. Conthequently, Thquire, you muthn’t quarrel with 
me if I take thith young man’th thide, and thay he’th right 
and there’th no help for it. But I tell you what I’ll do, 
Thquire ; I’ll drive your thon and thith young man over to 
the rail, and prevent expothure here. I can’t conthent to do 
more, but I’ll do that.” 

Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and deeper affliction on 
Mr. Gradgrind’s part, followed this desertion of them by their 
last friend. But, Sissy glanced at him with great attention ; 
nor did she in her own breast misunderstand him. As they 
were all going out again, he favored her with one slight roll 
of his movable eye, desiring her to linger behind. As he 
locked the door, he said excitedly : 

The Thquire thtood by you, Thethilia, and I’ll thtand 
by the Thquire. More than that : thith ith a prethiouth rath- 
cal, and belongth to that bluthtering Cove that my people 
nearly pitht out o’ winder. It’ll be a dark night ; I’ve got a 
horthe that’ll do anything but thpeak ; I’ve got a pony that’ll 
go fifteen mile an hour with Childerth driving of him ; I’ve 
got a dog that’ll keep a man to one plathe four-and-twenty 
hourth. Get a word with the young Thquire. Tell him, 
when he theeth our horthe begin to danthe, not to be afraid 
of being thpilt, but to look out for a pon3^-gig coming up. 
Tell him, when he theeth that gig clothe by, to jump down, 
and it’ll take him off at a rattling pathe. If my dog leth 
thith young man thtir a peg on foot, I give him leave to go. 
And if my horthe ever thtirth from that thpot where he beginth 
a dan thing, till the morning — I don’t know him ? — d'harp’th 
the word ! ” 

The word was so sharp, that in ten minutes Mr. Childers, 
sauntering about the market-place in a pair of slippers, had 
his cue, and Mr. Sleary’s equipage was ready. It was a fine 
sight to behold the learned dog barking round it, and Mr, 


PHIL OSC PHI CAL, 


791 

Sleary instiicting him, with his one practicable eye, that 
Bitzer was the object of his particular attentions. Soon after 
dark they all three got in and started ; the learned dog (a 
formidable creature) already pinning Bitzer with his eye, and 
sticking close to the wheel on his side, that he might be ready 
for him in the event of his showing the slightest disposition to 
alight. 

The other three sat up at the inn all night in great sus- 
pense. At eight o’clock in the morning Mr. ‘Sleary and the 
dog reappeared : both in high spirits. 

‘‘ All right, Thquire ! ” said Mr. Sleary, your thon may 
be aboard-a-thip by thith time. Childerth took him off, an 
hour and a half after we left here latht night. The horthe 
danthed the polka till he wath dead beat (he would have 
walthed if he hadn't been in harneth), and then I gave him 
the word and he went to thleep comfortable. When that 
prethiouth young Radical thed he’d go for’ard afoot, the dog 
hung on to hith neck-hankercher with all four legth in the air 
and pulled him down and rolled him over. Tho he coma 
back into the drag, and there he that, till I turned the horthe’th 
head, at half-path t thixth thith morning.” 

Mr. Gradgrind overwhelmed him with thanks, of course • 
and hinted as delicately as he could, at a handsome remuner- 
ation in money. 

‘‘ I don’t want money mythelf, Thquire ; but Childerth ith 
a family man, and if you wath to like to offer him a five-pound 
note, it mightn’t be unactheptable. Likewithe if you wath to 
thtand a collar for the dog, or a thet of bellth for the horthe, 
I thould be very glad to take ’em. Brandy and water I 
alwayth take.” He had already called for a glass, and now 
called for another. “ If you wouldn’t think it going too far, 
Thquire, to make a little thpread for the company at about 
three and thixth ahead, not reckoning Luth, it would make 
’em happy.” 

All these little tokens of his gratitude, Mr. Gradgrind very 
willingly undertook to render. Though he thought them far 
too slight, he said, for such a service. 

‘‘Very well, Thquire ; then, if you’ll only give a Hortherid- 
ing, a bethpeak, whenever you can, you’ll more than balanthe 
the account. Now, Thquire, if your daughter will etheuthe 
me, I should like one parting word with you.” 

Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoining room : Mr. 
Sleary, stirring and drinking his brandy and water as he stood, 
w^nt on ; 


792 


//A/^D TIMES. 


‘‘ Thquire, you don’t need to be told that dogth ith won^ 
clerful animalth.” 

Their instinct,” said Mr. Gradgrind, is surprising.” 

Whatever you call it — and I’m bletht if / know what ta 
call it ” — said Sleary, it ith athtonithing. The way in with 
a dog’ll find you — the dithtanthe he’ll come ! ” 

His scent,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “being so fine.” 

“ I’m bletht if I know what to call it,” repeated Sleary, 
shaking his head, “ but I have had dogth find me, Thquire, 
in a way that made me think whether that dog hadn’t gone to 
another dog, and thed, ‘ You don’t happen to know a perthon 
of the name of Thleary, do you ? Perthon of the name of 
Thleary, in the PIorthe-Riding way — thtout man — game eye ? ’ 
And whether that dog mightn’t have thed, ‘ Well, I can’t thay 
I know him mythelf, but I know a dog that I think would be 
likely to be acquainted with him.’ And whether that dog 
mightn’t have thought it over, and thed, ‘ Thleary, Thleary ! 
O yeth, to be sure ! A friend of mine menthioned him to me 
at one time. I can get you hith addreth directly.’ In con- 
thequenth of my being afore the public, and going about tho 
muth, you thee, there muthtbe a number of dogth acquainted 
with me, Thquire, that / don’t know ! ” 

Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite confounded by this 
speculation. 

“ Any way,” said Sleary, after putting his lips to his brandy 
and water, “ ith fourteen months ago, Thquire, thinthe we 
wath at Chethter. We wath getting up our Children in the 
Wood one morning, when there cometh into our Ring, by the 
thtage door, a dog. He had travelled a long way, he wath in 
very bad condithon, he wath lame, and pretty well blind. He 
went round to our children, one after another, as if he wath a 
theeking for a child he know’d ; and then he come to me, and 
throwd hithelf up behind, and thtood on hith two forelegth, 
weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith tail and died. 
Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.” 

“ Sissy’s father’s dog ! ” 

“ Thethilia’th father’th old dog. Now, Thquire, I can 
take my oath, from my knowledge of that dog, that that mam 
wath dead — and buried — afore that dog come back to me. 
Joth’phine and Childerth and me talked it over a long time, 
whether I thould write or not. But we agreed, ‘ No. There’th 
nothing comfortable to tell ; why unthettle her mind, and 
make her unhappy } ’ Tho, whether her father bathely 


FINAL. 


793 


detherted her ; or whether he broke hith own heart alone^ 
rather than pull her down along with him ; never will be 
known, now, Thquire, till — no, not till we know how* the dogth 
hndth uth out ! ” 

She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, to this hour ; 
and she will believe in his affection to the last moment of her 
fife,’' said Mr. Gradgrind. 

“ It theemth to prethent two thingth to a pefthon, don’t it, 
Thquire } ” said Mr. Sleary, musing as he looked down into 
the depths of his brandy and water : one, that there ith a 
love in the world, not all Thelf-interetht after all, but thome- 
thing very different ; t’other, that it hath a way of ith own of 
calculating or not calculating, whith thomehow or another ith 
at leatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the wayth of the 
-dogth ith ! ” 

Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window, and made no reply. 
Mr. Sleary emptied his glass and recalled the ladies. 

“ Thethilia my dear, kith me and good-by ! Mith Thquire, 
to thee you treating of her like a thithter, and a thithter that 
you trutht and honor with all your heart and more, ith a very^ 
pretty thihgt to me. I hope your brother may live to be 
better detherving of you, and a greater comfort to you. 
Thquire, thake handth, firtht and latht ! Don’t be croth with 
uth poor vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They 
can’t be alwayth a learning, not yet they can’t be alwayth a 
working, they an’t made for it. Y ou mu f/U ha.Ye uth, Thquire. 
Do the withe thing and the kind thing too, and make the betht 
of uth ; not the wurtht ! ” 

‘‘ And I never thought before,” said Mr. Sleary, putting 
his head in at the door again to say it, “ that I wath tho muth 
of a Cackler ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

FINAL. 

It is a dangerous thing to see anything in the sphere of a 
vain blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees it himself. Mr. 
Bounderby felt that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated 
34 


794 


HARD TIMES. 


him, and presumed to be wiser than he. Inappeasably indig 
dant with her for her triumphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he 
turned this presumption, on the part of a woman in her de- 
pendent position, over and over in his mind, until it accumu- 
lated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the 
discovery that to discharge this highly connected female — to 
have it in his power to say, She was a woman of family, and 
wanted to stick to me, but I wouldn’t have it, and got rid of 
her ” — would be to get the utmost possible amount of crown- 
ing glory out of the connection, and at the same time to pun- 
ish Mrs. Sparsit according to her deserts. 

Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea, Mr. Bounderby 
came in to lunch, and sat himself down in the dining-room of 
former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the 
fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither 
she was posting. 

Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered her 
pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melancholy and 
contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to 
assume a woeful look, which woeful look she now bestowed 
upon her patron. 

^‘What’s the matter now, ma’am?” said Mr. Bounderby, 
in a very short, rough way. ^ 

Pray, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, do not bite my nose 

off.” 

“ Bite your nose off, ma’am ? ” repeated Mr. Bounderby. 

Voi/r nose I ” meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit conceived, that it 
was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which 
offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and 
threw the knife down with a noise. 

Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup, and said, 
“ Mr. Bounderby, sir ! ” 

“ Well, ma’am ? ” retorted Mr. Bounderby. “ What are 
you staring it ? ” 

‘‘May I ask, sir,” said Mrs, Sparsit, “ have you been 
ruffled this morning ? ” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“ May I inquire, sir,” pursued the injured woman,. “ whether 
J am the unfortunate cause of your having lost your temper ? ” 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “ I am 
not come here to be bullied. A female may be highly con- 
nected, but she can’t be permitted to bother and badger a 
man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it.” 


FINAL. 


795 

(Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to get on ; foreseeing that if 
he allowed of details, he would be beaten.) 

Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolanian 
eyebrows ; gathered up her work into the proper basket ; and 
rose. 

Sir,” said she majestically. “ It is apparent to me that 
I am in your way at present. I will retire to my own apart- 
ment” 

Allow me to open the door, ma’am.” 

Thank you, sir ; I can do it for myself.” 

You had better allow me, ma’am,” said Bounderby, pass- 
ing her, and getting his hand upon the lock ; ‘‘because I can 
take the opportunity of saying a word to you before you go. 
Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think you are cramped here, do 
you know? It appears to me, that, under my humble roof, 
there’s hardly opening enough for a lady of your genius in 
^ther people’s affairs.” 

Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn, and 
said with great politeness, “ Really, sir? ” 

“ I have been thinking it over, you see, since the late 
affairs have happened, ma’am,” said Bounderby ; “ and it 
appears to my poor judgment ” 

“Oh! Pray sir,” Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with sprightly 
cheerfulness, “ don’t disparage your judgment. Everybody 
knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby’s judgment is. Every- 
body has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of gen- 
eral conversation. Disparage anything in yourself but your 
judgment, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, laughing. 

Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, resumed •. 

“ It appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a different sort of 
establishment altogether would bring out a lady of jour pow- 
ers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers’s, 
now. Don’t you think you might find some affairs there, ma’am 
to interfere with ? ” 

“It never occurred to me before, sir,” returned Mrs. 
Sparsit ; “ but now you mention it, I shoud think it highly 
probable.” 

“Then suppose you try, ma’am,” said Bounderby, laying 
an envelope with a check in it in her little basket. “ You can 
take your own time for going, ma’am ; but perhaps in the 
meanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers 
of mind, to eat her meals by herself, and not to be intruded 
upon. I really ought to apologize to you — being only Josiah 


TIMES. 


796 

Bounderby of Coketown — for having stood in your light so 
long.’’ 

‘‘Pray don’t name it, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “If 
that portrait could speak, sir — but it has the advantage over 
the original of not possessing the power of committing itself 
and disgusting others, — it would testify, that a long period 
has elapsed since I first habitually addressed it as the picture 
of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodle does, can awaken sur- 
prise or indignation ; the proceedings of a Noodle can only 
inspire contempt.” 

Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features like, 
a medal struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderby,, 
surveyed him fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully 
past him, and ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed 
the door, and stood before the fire ; projecting himself after his- 
old explosive manner into his portrait — and into futurity 

Into how much of futurity ? He saw Mrs. Sparsit fighting; 
out a daily fight at the points of all the weapons in the female 
armory, with the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady 
Scadgers, still laid up in bed with her mysterious leg, and 
gobbling her insufficient income down about the middle of 
every quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a mere closet 
for one, a mere crib for two ; but did he see more ? Did he 
catch any glimpse of himself making a show of Bitzer to 
strangers, as the rising young man, so devoted to his master’s 
great merits, who had won young Tom’s place, and had almost 
captured young Tom himself, in the times when by various^ 
rascals he was spirited away ? Did he see any faint reflection: 
of his own image making a vain-glorious will, whereby five- 
and-twenty Humbugs, past five and fifty years of age, each 
taking upon himself the name, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown,, 
should forever dine in Bounderby Hall, for ever lodge in 
Bounderby Buildings, for ever attend a Bounderby chapel, for 
ever go to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, for ever be sup- 
ported out of a Bounderby estate, and for ever nauseate all: 
healthy stomachs, with a vast amount of Bounderby balder- 
dash and bluster? Had he any prescience of the day, five 
years to come, when Josiah Bounderby of Coketown was to 
die of a fit in the Coketown street, and this same precious will 
was to begin its long career of quibble, plunder, false pre^ 
fences, vile example, little service and much law ! Probably 
not. Yet the portrait was to see it all out. 


FINAL. 


797 


Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same da)^, and in the 
same hour, sitting thoughtful in his own room. How much of 
futurity did he see ? Did he see himself, a white-haired de- 
crepit man, bending his hitherto inflexible theories to appointed 
circumstances; making his facts and figures subservient to 
P'aith, Hope, and Charity ; and no longer trying to grind that 
Heavenly trio in his dusty little mills ? Did he catch sight of 
himself, therefore much despised by his late political asso- 
ciates ? Did he see them, in the era of its being quite settled 
that the national dustman have only to do with one another, 
and owe no duty to an abstraction called a people, ‘‘ taunt- 
ing the honorable gentleman ” with this and with that and 
with what not, five nights a-week, until the small hours of 
the morning ? Probably he had that much fore-kno)vledge 
knowing his men. 

Here was Louisa on the night of the same day, watching 
the fire as in days of yore, though with a gentler and a hum- 
bler face. How much of the future might arise before her 
vision Broadsides in the streets, signed with her father’s 
name, exonerating the late Stephen Blackpool, weaver, from 
misplaced suspicion, and publishing the guilt of his own son, 
with such extenuation as his years and temptation (he could 
not bring himself to add, his education) might beseech ; were 
of the Present. So, Stephen Blackpool’s tombstone, with her 
father’s record of his death, was almost of the Present, for 
she knew it was to be. These things she could plainly see. 
But how much of the Future ? 

A working woman, christened Rachael, after a long illness 
once again appearing at the ringing of the Factory bell, and 
passing to and fro at the set hours, among the Coketowm 
Hands ; a woman of pensive beauty, always dressed in black, 
but sweet-tempered and serene, and even cheerful; who, of 
all the people in the place, alone appeared to have compassion 
on a degraded, drunken wretch of her owm sex, who was 
sometimes seen in the town secretly begging of her, and cry- 
ing to her; a woman w'orking, ever working, but content to 
do it, and preferring to do as her natural lot, until she should 
be too old to labor any more 1 Did Louisa see this ? Such 
a thing was to be. 

A lonely brother; many ^thousands of miles away, writing 
on paper blotted with tears, that her words had too soon come 
true, and that all the treasures in the world would be cheaply 


HARD TIMES. 


798 

bartered for a sight of her dear face ? At length this brother 
coming near home, with hope of seeing her, and being delayed 
by illness ; and then a letter, in a strange hand, saying “ he 
died in hospital, of fever, such a day, and died in penitence 
and love of you : his last word being your name ? Did Louisa 
see these things ? Such things were to be. 

Herself again a wife — a mother — lovingly watchful of her 
children, ever careful that they should have a childhood of the 
mind no less than a childhood of the body ; as knowing it' to 
be even a more beautiful thing, and a possession, any hoarded 
scrap of which, is a blessing and happiness to the wisest ? 
Did Louisa see this ? Such a thing was never to be. 

But, happy Sissy’s happy children loving her ; all children 
loving her , she, grown learned in childish lore ; thinking no 
innocent and pretty fancy ever to be despised ; trying hard to 
know her humbler fellow creatures, and to beautify their lives 
of machinery and reality with those imaginative graces and 
delights, without which the heart of infancy will wither up, 
the sturdiest physical manhood will be morally stark death, 
and the plainest national prosperity figures can show, will be 
the Writing on the Wall, — she holding this course as part 
of no fantastic vow, or bond, or brotherhood, .or sisterhood, 
or pledge, or covenant, or fancy dress, or fancy fair ; but 
simply as a duty to be done, — did Louisa see these things of 
herself t These things were to be. 

Dear reader ! It rests with you and me, whether, in our 
two fields of action, similar things shall be or not. Let them 
be ! We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to se^ 
the ashes of our fires turn gray and cold. 


ENOCH MORGAN’S SONS* 



SAiOJilO 


CLEANS 

WINDOWS, 
MARBLE, 

KNiVEa 

POLISHES 

tin-ware, 

IBON,STEEL.&C. 



SGJ,Tr-A.Il.Ii3 .AJLTX) XTIP^aiG-SrT ^PXAJNTOS- 


The demands now made by an educated musical public are so 
exacting, that very few pi .no-forte manufacturers can produce instru- 
ments that will stand the test which merit requires. 

SOHMER & Co. , as manufacturers, rank among this chosen few, 
who are acknowledged to be makers of standard instruments. In 
these days when many manufacturers urge the low price of their 
wares, rather than their superior quality, as an inducement to pur- 
chase, it may not be amiss to suggest that, in a piano, quality and 
price are too inseparably joined, to expect the one without the other. 
Every piano ought to be judged as to the quality of its tone, its 
touch, and its workmanship ; if any one of these is wanting in excel- 
lence, however good the others may be, the instrument will be imper- 
fect. It is the combination of all th se qualities in the highest degree 
that constitutes the perfect piano, and it is such a combination, as has 
given the^ OHMEB its honor able position with the trade and public. 

*“ Pricesas reasonableasconsistent 

with the Highest Standard, 

{MANUFACTURERS, 

!49tol55Easti4thSt.,N.Y. 



STANDARD PUBLICATIONS. 


CHaas. Dickens’ Complete "Works, 

15 Vols., 12mo, cloih, ^riit, ir22.50. 

W. M. Thackeray’s Complete 
Works, 11 Yois., 127no, cloth, gilt, 
$16.50. 

JOHN W. 


George Eliot’s Complete Works^ 
8 12mo, cloth, gilt, $10.00. 

Plutarch’s Dives of Illustrious 
Men. 3 Vols., 12mo. cloth, gilt, 
$4.50.' 

LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 AND 16 Vesby Street, New York- 


STANDARD PUBLICATIONS. 


StoUins’ Ancient History, 4 Vola., 
12mo, cloth, gilt, $6.00. 

Charles Knight’s Popular His- 
tory of England, 8 Yola., 12mo, 
Ctot^gUt top, $12,00, 


Dovell’s Series of Bed Dina 
Poets, 50 Yolumes of all the best 
works of the world’s great Poets, 
Tennyson, Shakespere, Milton, Mere- 
dith, Ingelow, Proctor, Scott, Byron, 
Dante, &c. $1.25 pes volume. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 AND 16 YSSET STKBBTa JIBW TqA 




Open ail the Year Round to 


Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, Old Mexico, Ahizona, Call 

FOHNIA, AND ALL PACIFIC COAST POINTS. 


KANSAS IS KING 


Among Grain Growing and Stock Raising States. Kansas Land for 
Farming, Kansas Land for Stock Raising, Kansas 
Land for Investment. 


O O Xj O I?, _A. ID o , 

The Greatest Silver Producing State in the Union. 


NEW MEXICO AND ARIZONA. 

Gold and Silver Gems; Flocks, Herds and Vineyards; Rums of' 
A Civilization as Ancient and Interesting as tliat of the Nile. 
FREE SLEEPING CARS for all Emigrant Passengers on tlie AtcL- 
ison, Topeka & Santa Fe R. R.. SOLID COMFORT. 


OLD MEXICO. 

Land op the Montezumas Opened to the World. Througli 
Sleeping Cars from Kansas City to El Paso, connecting with the 
Mexican Central for Chihuahua the Interior. All aboard for 
Guaymas on the Gulf of California ! 


CALIFORNIA, 

|, “ The Home of Gold.’' Go to SAN FRANCISCO, via the Atchi- 
son, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad, through Los Angeles and her 
Orange Groves. 

LAS VEGAS HOT SPRINGS 


I Las Vegas, New Mexico. New Winter Resort on the Line of the 
I Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe R. R. Accomodations as Elegant, in 
I all respects, in Winter as in Summer A Charming Half- Way 
' . Resting Place on the Southern Route to tlie Pacific. 


I Write for Santa Fe Trail, Hot Springs Bock, Maps, &o,, to 

! W. L. MALCOLM, General Eastern Agent, 

! 419 Broadway, New Yoik. 

I 

j W. F. WHITE, Gen'l Passenger Agent, Topeka, Kan. 

I L. TRUSLOW, Gen’l Traveling Agent, Topeka, Kan. 


WOMAN’S Place To-day. 

Four !«otttTeg in reply t« the Lentea leetcres on “ WomanP* \j tfee Eev. 
M«S]St4n Dix, D.D., of Trinity Chnreh, New YorkL 

By L,iilie I>ev@reux Blake, 


no. 1(H, L,aTlSIijL’S lilRI^AKT, Paper Covers, Ce«t», 
Clotli iKimp, 50 Cents. 

! Mri. Lillie Deverenx Blake last erenin^ entertained an andlence that mied 
Frebiaber’s Hall, in East Fourteenth Street, by a witty and sarcastic handling 
of the recent Lenten talk of the Key. Br. Morgan Dix on the follies of womea 
“fcf society.—iV^^t* York Times, 

Mrs. Lillie Devereox Blake is a very elcqnent lady, and a them in the side 
®f the Rev. Dr. Dix. and gentlemen who, like him, presume to say that woman 
is not man’s equal, if not nis snporior. Mrs. Blake in her reply to Dr. Dix’s 
I recent lecture upon ** Divorce, ’* made some interesting remarks upon the sex 
I to which she has the honor to belong. — New York Commercial Advertiser. 
j There is no denying that Mrs. Blake has, spartan-li ke, stood as a break- water 
j to the surging flood Rector Dix has cast upon the so-called weaker sex with 
j the hope of engulfing it. It is sad to see a gentleman in the position Dr. Dix 
j occupies setting himself deliberately at work to not only bring reproach upon 
I the female sex, but to m^ike ns all look with comtempt upon our mothers and 
I sisters. And the worst of his case is that he has shown that spirit in the male 

I part of mankind, which is not at ail creditable to it, of depreciating the In- 
tellect. the judgment, the ability and the capability of the female sex in order 
to elevate to a higher plane the male sex. According to Dr.' Dix the world 
would be better were there no more female children born. And he makes 
this argument in the face of the fact that there would be “ hell upon earth ” 
V were It not for the influence of women, and such women a^s Mrs. Lillie Devereox 
I Bifeke, especially JSufuUJty Y^sss. 

Mrs. i iake’s was the most interesting and spicy speech ef the avenlng. She 
was in a sparkliEg mood and hit at everything and everybody that came to 
her mind.— Evening Telegram, N. Y. 

A stately lily of a woman, with delicate features, a pair of great gray eyes that 
dilate as she s waks till they light her whole face like two great soft stars. — The 
Independent. N. Y. 

* * * She advanced to the front of the platform, gesticu hted gracefully 
1 and spoke vigorously, d fiantly and without notes.— York Citizen.. 

♦ ♦ ♦ a most eloquent and poUsbed oration. The peroration was a grand 
burst of eloquence.— Trcyy Tirnee. 

Lillie Devereux Blake, blonde, brilliant, ptaccata, stylish, is a fluent speaker, 
of good platform presence, and argued wittily and Washington Post. 

There are very few speakers on the platform who have the brightness, 
vivacity and fluency of LiUie Devereux Blake. — Albany Snruiay Frees. 

She is an easy, graceful sneaker, and wide-awake withal, bringing our 
^ment applause.— Hartford Times, 

Mr.s. Blake s address was fon.ible and eloquent. The speaker was frequently 
interrupted by applause. — New York Times. 

The most brilliant lady speaker in the city.— York Herald. 

Has the reputation of heing the wittiest woman on the platform.— Aft- 
<onio Express. 

Mrs. Blake, who has a most pleasing address, then spoke; a strong vela of 
•arcasm, wit and humor pervaded the lady’s Texuaili&.—Pougnkeep^ News. 




For Salk by all Newsdealers and Booksellers 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

14 & 1© 'Vss.ey Street, New York. 


‘‘ Dpo Newton has had given to him the spiritual 
sense of what people wanted, and this he has rev- 
erently, clearly and definitely furnished,” — Boston 
Herald, March 17. 


THE RIGHT AND WRONG 



OF THE BIB 




By Rev. R. Heber Newton. 


No. 83, ‘‘Loyell’s Library,” Paper Covers, 20 Cents; Also 
IN Cloth, Red Edges, 75 Cents. 


“ Dr. Newton has not separated his heart from his head in these 
religious studies, and has thus been preserved from the mistakes 
which a purely critical mind might have been led.” — N. T. Times, 
March 12. 

“Those who wish to abuse Dr. Newton should do so before 
reading his lectures, as, after reading them, they may find it quite 
impossible to do so.” — N, T, Star, March il. 

“ It is impossible to read these sermons without high admiration 
of the author’s courage ; of his honesty, his reverential spirit^ his 
wide and careful reading, and his true conservatism .” — American 
Literary Ohurchman, 

For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers. 


JOEl^ W. LOVELL CO., RMishers, 

14 & 16 Vesey St., New York. 


/ 


TWO GREAT NOVELS 


GIDEOf^ FLEYOE. 

By henry W. LUCY. 

1 vol, 12mo. Handsome Paper Covers. No. 96 of Lovell’s Libraby. 20c. 

“When ‘Gideon Fleyce’ has been read, the|answer will be that Mr. 
Lucy has succeeded. He has devised an excellent plot, and he has told it ad- 
mirably. It is partly political ; it is partly a love story, though that element 
has compamtively asroall share in it ; and it is a novel of incident. Mr. Lticy’s 
comments upon political matters are delightful.” — Scotsman. 

“ This is one of the cleverest novels we have read for a long time. The 
author is sure to take a high place among contemporary novelists, may perhaps j 
some day prove his fitness to rank among the great masters of the craft.”— 
Sheffield Independent. 

“ The novel has remarkable constructive excellence and striking situations. 
The flow of easy humour and the extraordinary perception of ihe ridiculous 
possessed by the aut or have here most facile display.”— Daily News. 

“A very clever novel, and full of promise as a first venture in fiction : a 
highly entertaining story, ‘ Gideon Fleyce ’ is so much above the average of 
novels that the accession of its author— especially as the creator of “ Napper,” 
to the rank of writers of fiction is deserving of a very heaity welcome.”— 
Academy. 

“ That is a powerful scene, and the whole of the sensational plot of which 
this scene is the central point, is managed with an ingenuity worthy almost of 
Wilkie Collins.”— Spectator. 

“ An excellent story, which has the double interest of an exciting plot 
with telling episodes and of very clever analysis of character.”— Times. 


THE COLDEfi SHAFT. 

By CHARLES GIBBON, Author of “Robin Gray,” &c. 

1 vol. 12mo. Handsome Paper Covers. No. 57 of Lovell's Library. 20c. 

“ Mr. Gibbon is to be congratulated on the character of ‘Fiscal ’ Musgrave, 
which is as original as it is lifelike, and as attractive as it is original. The 
situation which chiefly displays it is well imagined, powerfully worked out, 
and sufficiently striking in itself.”— Academy. 

“ Excellent in every important respect ; the story is interesting, the plot 
is most ingeniously devised, the characters are cleverly conceived and con- 
sistently di’awn, while several of them stand out picturesquely m their quaint 

originality Altogether, we may certainly congratulate Mr. Gibbon on his 

book ’’—Saturday Review. 

“ Mr. Gibbon is at his best in this story. It contains some really powerful 
situations, and its plot is well worked out. The conscientious difiiculties of 
the Fiscal, the father of the charming herione, are well developed by Mr. 
Gibbon, and the story will be read with interest throughout.”— Manchester 
Examiner 

“ Altogether, the ‘ Golden Shaft’ is gooc% and fully equals, if it doesnotim- 
prove upon, anything Mr. Gibbon has previously written.^’— Glasgow Uerald 

“It is pleasant to meet with a work by Mr. Gibbon that will remind his 
; readers of the promise of his earliest efforts. The story of Thorburn and his 
i family is full of power and pathos, as is the figure of the strong-natured 
I Musgrave.”— Athen^um. 

“ On the whole, we have seen nothing before of Mr. Gibbon’s writing so 
I good as this novel.” — Daily New’s. 

For sale by all Newsdealers and Booksellers. The Trade supplied by The 
American News Company and Branches. 

JOHN W. LOVELIi CO., 

I 14 A: 10 Vesey St., New York. 


orTJso? je^tj:sIjISs:3sid : 


SCIENCE IN SHORT CHAPTERS 

By W. MATTIETJ WILLIAMS, F.B.A.S. F.C.S. 

Author of The Fuel of the Sunf “ A Simple Treatise on Heatf t&c. 

BEmG I«o. 8o OF FOVEFF’S EIBRABY, i 

12mo, handsome paper covers. Price, 20 Cents. I 

( ■ 

“Mr. Mattieii Williams is undoubtedly able to present scientific subjects to [ 
' the popular mind with much clearness and force • and these essays maj’^ :,'e ^ 

read with advantage by those, who, without having had special training, are yet I 

enlliciently intelligent to take interest in the movement of events in the scientific S 
; world."— Academy. 

“The title of Mr. Mattieu Williams’ ‘Science in Short Chapters’ exactly 
explains its subject. Clear and simple, these brief reprints from all sorts of 
periodicals are just what Angelina may profitably read to Edwin while he is \ 
sorting his papers, or trimming the lamps, if (like some highly domesticated 
Edwins) he insists on doingthat ticklish bitof house-work himself ."—Girtphic. ! 

“ The papers are not mere rechauffes of common knowledge. Almost all of \ 
them are marked by original thought, and many of them contain demonstrations | 
or apercus of considerable scientific value.” — Pall Mall Gazette, 1 

“The chapte s range from such subjects as science and spiritualism to the j 
consumption of smoke. They include a dissertation on iron filings in tea, and \ 

they disouss the action of frost on water-pipes and on building materials. The | 

volume begins with an article on the fuel of the sun, and before it is concluded j 
it deals with Count Eumford’s cooking stoves. All the.se subjects, and a great 
many more, are treated in apleasant, informative manner. Mr. Williams knows J 
what he is talking about, and he says what he ha- to say in such a way as to i 
prevent any possible misconception. The book will be prized by all who desire 
to have sound information on such subjects as those with which it deals.”— ' 
Scotsman. 

“ To the scientific world Mr. Williams is best known by his solar studies, 
but here he is not writing so much for scientists as for the general public. It has 
been the aim of his life to popularise science, and his articles are so treated that 
his readers may become interested in them and find in their perusal a mental 
recreation.” — Sunday-school Chronicle. 

“ We highly recommend this most entertaining and vauable collection of 
papers. They combine clearness and simplicity, and are not wanting in philoso- 
phy likewise.” — Tablet. 


LIFE OF OLIVER CROMWELL, 

His Life, Times, Battlefields, and Contemporaries, by 

PAXTON HOOD, • ! 

Author of “ Christmas Evamf “ Thomas Carlyle f "'‘Romance of 

Biography," <&,c. I 

I 

TSTo. T3 off XiO'V’HIIIjXj’S 

12mo, handsome paper covers, 15 CENTS. 

This is a popular biography of the career of Oliver Cromwell, which will be 
welcomed by those who are unable to pursue the stirring history of his life and 
times, in the elaborate volumes to which the student is at present referred. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent free of jmstage on 
receipt of price by the publishers. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., 

14 and 16 Vesey St., New York. 


NOVELS BY 

THE DUCHESS, 

Al l of whick are now issued in Lovell’s Library^ in 
j handsome 12mo form, for 

i 

l 20 CEZSTTS 

3 

I vrz : 

I Portia, or By Passions Rocked^ 

I Phyllis’ 

Molly Bawn, 

Airy Fairy Lillian, 

Mrs. Geoifrey, Etc., Etc. 

„ 

Tbe works by The Duchess have passed, and far passed, all 
competitors in the race for popularity and admirers. Editions 
after editions have rapidly succeeded each other, both in England 
and this Country, and it is an interesting fact (to the publishers) 
to know that the supply does not equal the demand. Select and 
read any one of the above, and you will not be happy till you have 
read them all. It would be of little use giving extracts-from the 
thousands of eulogistic press criticisms. Your only plan is to 
buy one, and be convinced that the Novels by The Duchess are 
the most intensely interesting light reading written for many a 
year. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage paid 
on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street, 

New York. 



A QUAINT LITERARY CREATION ! 


GRANDFATHER LiCKSHINGLE 

And Other Sketches. 


By R. W. CRISWELL, of the Cincinnati Enquirer, 

Author of “ The New Shakespeare” and Other Travesties. 

A VOLUME OF GENUINE HUMOR ! 

1 voL, 12mo., cloth, gilt, $1.00 

1 “ “ paper, - .50 

Also in Lovell’s Library, 1 vol. .20 


“ Has made a wide reputation as a humorist .” — Brooklyn Eagle, 

“ One of the acknowledged humorists of the day.” — N, T, Mail 
and Express. 

“ Has acquired a national fa,me .” — Utica Observer. 

** His humor is as natural as sunlight.” — Bobt. J. Burdette. 

“ Won a national reputation .” — Pittsburgh Commercial Gazette. 

“ One of the brightest writers of the day .” — Burlington Hawkey e. 

“ Has taken and held a place in the front rank.” — H. Y. Truth. 

There has been no brighter writer on the American press in 
the past fifteen years .” — Elmira Advertiser, 

‘‘ Mr. Criswell’s writings are thoroughly original .” — Bloomington 
Eye. 

“ A reputation enjoyed by few of his age .” — Bradford Star, 

“His humor is quaint and scholarly .” — Cincinnati Catholic 
Telegraph, 

“He imitates nobody .” — New York Sun. 

“Has made a world- wide reputation .” — Louisville Courier- 
Journal, 

JOHN W. LOVELL OO., Publishers, 

14 <& 16 Vesey St., New York, 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 

O-A-T-^LOG-TTE. 


85. Shandon Bells, by William Black. 20 

86. Monica, by The Duchess 10 

87. Heart and Science, by Wilkie Col- 

lins 20 

88. The Golden Calf, by Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

89. The Dean’s Daughter, by Mrs. 

Gore 20 

90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess., 20 

91. Pickwick Papers, Part 1 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part II 20 


92. Airy Fa ry Lilian, by TheDuches.s.20 

93. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Black. 20 

94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton, P’tl.20 
Tempest Tossed, by Tilton, P’tII.20 

95. Letters from High Latitudes, by 

Lord Dufferin 20 

96. Gideon Pleyce, by Henry W. Lucy. 20 

97. India and Ceylon, by E. Hseckle..20 

98. The Gypsy Queen, by Hugh De 

Normand 20 

99. The Admiral’s Ward, by Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

100. Niraport, by E. L. Bynner, P’t I. .15 
Nimport, by E. L. Bjmner, P’t II. . 15 

101. Harry Holbrouke, by SirH. Ran- 

dall Koberts . . .. 20 

102. Tritons, by E. Lasscter Bynner, 

Part I 15 

Tritons, by E. Lasseter Bynner, 

Part II 15 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay, by Wal- 
ter Besant. 10 

104. Lady Audley’s Secret, by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

j 1U5. Woman’s Place To-Day, by Mrs. 

j Lillie Devereux Blake 20 

I 106. Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part I... 15 
1 Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part II.. 15 
! 107. Housekeeping and Home-Making, 

I by Marion Harland 15 

1 108. No New Thing, by W. E. Norris.. 20 
i 109. The SpoopendykePapers, by Stan- 

j ley Huntley 20 

j 110. False Hopes, by Goldwin Smith. .15 
I 111. Labor and Capital, by Edward 

Kellogg 20 

112. Wanda, by Ouida, Part I........15 


Wanda, by Ouida, Part II 15 

113. More Words About the Bible, by 

Rev. Jas. S. Bush 20 

114. Monsieur Lecoq, byGaboriau,P’t 1.20 
MonsieurLecoq.byGaboriau.P’t 11.20 

115. An Outline of Irish History, by 

Justin H. McCarthy 10 

116. The Lerouge Case, by Gaboriau . . 20 

117. Paul Clifford, by Lord Lytton...20 

118. A New Lease of Life, by About. .20 

119. Bourbon Lillies 20 

120. Other Peoples’ Money, by Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

121 . The Lady of Lyons, by Lord Ly tton . 10 

122. Ameline de Bourg 15 




123. A Sea Queen, by W. Clark Rnssell.SO 

124. The Ladies Lindores, by Mrs. 

Oliphant' 20 

125. Haunted Hearts, by J. P. Simpson. 10 

126. Loys, Lord Beresford, by The 

Duchess . . .-. 20 

127. Under Two Flags, by Ouida, P’t I.2t 
Under Two Flags, by Ouida,P’t 11.20 

128. Money, by Lord Lytton 10 

129. In Peril of His Life, by Gaboriau. 20 

130. India, by Max Muller 20 

131. Jets and Flashes 20 

132. Moonshine and Marguerites, by 

The Duchess 10 

133. Mr. Scarborough’s Family, by 

Anthony Trollope, Part 1 15 

Mr. Scarborough’s Family, by 
Anthony Trollope, Part II..... 15 

134. Arden, by A. Mary F. Roberts... 15 

135. The Tower of Percemont, by 

George Sand 20 

136. Yolande, by Wra. Black 20 


137. Cruel London, by Joseph Hatton. 20 

138. The Gilded Clique, by Gaboriau. ..20 

139. Pike County Folks, by E. H. Mott.. 20 

140. Cricket on the Hearth, by Dickens. 10 

141. Henry Esmond, by Thackeray 20 

142. Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, 

by Wm. Black 20 

143. Denis Duval, by W. M. Thackeray. 10 
111. Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles 

Dickens, Part I .15 

Old Curiosity Shop, by Charles 
Dickens, Part II 16 

145. Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part 1 15 

Ivanhoe, by Scott, Part II 15 

146. White Wings, by Wm. Black 20 

147. The Sketch Book, by Irving 20 

148. Catherine, by W. M. Thackeray 10 

149 Janet’s Repentance, by Eliot 10 

150. Barnaby Riidge, Dickens Part 1.15 
Barnaby Rudge. Dickens P’t 11.15 

151. Felix Holt, by George Eliot.. .20 

152. Richelieu, by Lord Lytton 10 

153. Sunrise, by Wm. Black Parti.. .15 
Sunrise, by Wm. Black Part II.. 15 

1.54. Tour of the World in 80 Days 20 

155. Mystery of Orcival, Gaboriau 20 

156. T.ovel, The Widower, by W. M. 

Thackeray 10 

157. The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid, byThos. Haidy 10 

158. David Oopperfield. Parti 20 

David Copperfield, Part II 20 

159. Charlotte Temple 10 

IGO. Riciizi, by Lord Lytton, Part I . . 10 

Rienzi, by Lord Lytton, Part II , 10 

161. Promise of Marriage, Gaboriau. .25 

162. Faith and Un faith. The Duchess 15 

163. The Happy Man, Samuel Lover. 10 

164. Barry Lyndon, by Thackeray. . .20 

165. Eyre’s Acquittal, Helen Mathers 10 

166. 20.000 Leagues under the Sea, by 


mMS MD mVE FOOD, 



COMPOSED OP THE NERVE-GIVINa PBINCIPLES OP 
THE OX-BKAIH AND WHEAT-GEBM. 


It restores the energy lost by Nervousness or Indigestion ; relieve; 
Lassitude and Neuralgia ; refreshes the nerves tired by worry, excite- 
ment, or excessive brain fatigue ; strengthens a failing memory, anc 
gives renewed vigor in all diseases of Nervous Exhaustion or Debility, 
it Is the only PREVENTIVE FOR CONSUMPTION. 

It aids wonderfully in the mental and hodUy growth of infants anc 
cMd/ren, Under its use the teeth come easier, the hones grow better, the skit 
•pLumper and smoother; the brain acquires more readily, and rests and sleep 
more sweetly. An ill- fed brain learns no lessons, and is excusable if peemsh 
It gvces a happi&r and better childhood, 

•'It is with the utmost confidence that I recommend this excellent pre 
paration for the relief of indigestion and for general debility; nay, I domor^ 
than recommend, 1 really urge all invalids to put it to the test, for in sev 
eral cases personally known to me signal benefits have been derived fron 
its use. 1 have recently watched its effects on a young friend who ha 
suffered from indigestion all her life.' After taking the Vitalized Pnos 
PHITES for a fortnight she said to me; ‘ I feel another person; it is a pleas 
ure to live. * Many hard-working men and women — especially those engage* 
in brain work — would be saved from the fatal resort to chloral and othe 
destructive stimulants, if they would have recourse to a remedy so simpl 
and so efficacious. ** 

Emily Faithfull. 

PUYSICIAKS HAVE PRESCRIBED OVER 600,000 PACKAGES., BECAUSE THE 

KNOW ITS Composition, THAT it is not a secret remedy, and 
THAT THE FORMULA IS PRINTED ON EVERY LABBIi 

^ For Sale by XlrujBrsrlsts or by Rf ail, 

E- CROSBY CO., 661 and 666 Sixth Avenue. New York 


n 


L^‘ k- 


i i i •* 1 . ■' 

U/ u.. I •* w 



4 




